


we all get to see (who we grow up to be)

by monroeslittle



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monroeslittle/pseuds/monroeslittle
Summary: “It takes a special kind of person to disagree with the universe, Ms. Castillo.”OR seven AU ficlets of the ways it didn't happen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Five things.
> 
> 1\. I'm a piss poor editor, so there are going to be typos. Sorry!
> 
> 2\. In my head, each of these AU scenarios was going to be ~1,000 words. Ha. I'm sorry if any of them seem to drag, but I got caught up in each! I hope it's not too difficult to jump from one to another.
> 
> 3\. Fuck you, HTGAWM.
> 
> 4\. Rating is mostly for language. If you don't like swearing, retreat. Also, there's a bit of violence, and very minor sexytimes.
> 
> 5\. Fuck you again, HTGAWM, because you're the worst, and I'm not over it yet.

_i. “Beyond the wild wood comes the wild world.”_

 

She didn’t understand where he was, why nobody had gotten a hold of him yet. She knew that he wasn’t just asleep. He stayed up late at night. Hadn't he heard about the fire? He needed to answer his phone, and stop her mind from running wild with fear.

She’d seen a body in the house.

It had been way too dark, and she’d been frozen with shock, and the world had exploded in the blink of an eye.

She knew, though.

There had been somebody else in the house with her, lying on the floor of the kitchen, and she had no idea who, and nobody was telling her anything in this stupid, useless hospital.

“Laurel,” Meggy said, hurrying into the small hospital room, and making a beeline for the television.

Laurel’s heart jumped.

Meggy just began to flip through the channels.

 _What_?

Suddenly, a photograph of Annalise’s burning house was splashed on the screen. Meggy looked around for the remote, and turned the volume up quickly. Laurel couldn’t blink, couldn’t take her eyes off the screen for a _second_. The reporter was saying that there were rumors of arson, that a student at Middleton was in the hospital, and a body was found.

 _No_ , she thought.

The reporter was interrupted with a brand new update, explaining that the body of the deceased was identified. Nate’s face filled the screen. The reporter began talking about Nate while the photograph sat unchanging on the television.

Nate was dead.

Laurel couldn’t stop herself from sobbing, falling back against the pillows.

Meggy was suddenly at her side. “It’s okay.” She hugged Laurel’s shoulders. “He’s okay. We’ll get a hold of him. _He’s okay_.” She pulled Laurel closer.

She closed her eyes, trying to believe it.

“Wes,” Meggy said. “It’s Wes.” Laurel’s eyes flew open. Meggy pulled away from Laurel to answer her phone. “Wes! Where are you?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours!

There was a pause.

“Let me talk to him,” Laurel croaked. It hurt to speak. Her voice was raw, damaged. “Meggy.” But if he was on that phone, she needed to talk to him. “Meggy, let me . . .”

“She’s going to be fine,” Meggy said. “I’m coming, okay? I’ll meet you by the front triage desk in a minute. Here. You can talk to her.” She held the phone out to Laurel. “He’s fine. He’s in the hospital, but they won’t let him back to see you. I’m going to get him, okay?”

She took the phone. “Wes?” Her heart was lodged in her throat.

“ _I’m here_ ,” he said.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, shaking with a rush of new, fresh tears.

“ _I got here as soon as I could, but they won’t let me back_ ,” he continued. “ _Are you okay? I can’t—Oliver said they won’t tell him anything, and I can’t get anyone to tell me anything either. They just keep tell me to take a seat. He said you weren’t breathing earlier?_ ”

“I’m fine,” she said, and the word came out at a sticky, tearful mumble. “I’m—I didn’t know where you were, and I—” Her voice rose pitch, and broke. If she spoke for too long, it left her breathless. “I thought—”

“ _I never went to the house_.”

She held the phone so tightly it hurt.

“ _You’re okay, though? You’re the one I’m worried about. They won’t tell me anything._ ”

“I’m okay,” she said.

“ _Good._ ”

“I love you,” she said, because she needed him to know.

“ _I love you, too_.”

“I thought—” She swallowed. “The fight. I didn’t want that to be—the last—”

“ _I know. They told me about the fire, and a body was found, and a woman was taken to the hospital, and I—nobody could tell me who it was, then I got to the hospital, and everyone was there. Oliver and Michaela and Bonnie, and—and I knew that meant you were in the house, and—”_

“It was Nate,” she told him.

“That’s what Bonnie told everyone,” he said, standing in the doorway, and lowering the phone from his ear.

Their eyes met.

Her face contorted with tears. He crossed the room in three quick strides, and he was there, was pulling her into his arms, and she sucked in a breath, burying her face in his chest. She was enveloped in his smell, in his warmth. “I thought—” she whispered. In answer, he hugged her tighter.

\---

Meggy said Wes couldn’t stay for long, that he wasn’t allowed to. But she told them she’d give them a minute, and she’d return to sneak Wes out. He scooted a chair to sit by Laurel’s bed, and when she reached out, he took her hand again. His smile was soft, reassuring. On the television, the news had put up Annalise’s photograph.

“She didn’t do this,” Laurel said, hoarse.

“She could’ve.”

Surprised, she tore her gaze from the TV to look at him.

“That’s where I was earlier,” he explained. “I was with the police. I was giving her up. I didn’t end up actually signing anything. They got the news about the fire, and asked me if I’d known her plans, and I—I got here as fast as I could. I was going to do it, though. I was going to sign it.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said. He shook his head. “Because they found Rebecca’s body in the woods.”

Her shock must have shown on her face.

“I thought she’d made it up about Rebecca being dead just to get me to—” He seemed to remember where they were, eyeing the door, and leaning in, lowering his voice. “To shoot her. She didn’t, though. Rebecca was murdered, and if she didn’t do it, she knows who does, and she helped cover it up.”

She didn’t say anything.

“The police showed me pictures of her body,” he went on. He swallowed. “They made it pretty clear that unless I turned on Annalise, I was a suspect.”

“She didn’t do it.”

“You don’t know that.”

She hesitated.

Slowly, his face changed with the realization that she _did_ know that.

“It was Bonnie,” she said. “I guess that she thought she—” She began to whisper. “She thought she was helping. Annalise did cover it up. She didn’t know who’d done it. She just knew she had to protect someone.”

He opened his mouth, and closed it. She saw the emotions flicker across his face, shock and confusion and _disbelief._ He clenched his jaw.

“Wes.”

“You knew that she was dead?” he asked.

“I was trying to— _protect you_.”

He pulled his hand away from her, pushing out of his seat, and standing.

“Wes.”

“How could you not tell me?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be the person I can trust. But you—you’ve been lying to me just like everyone else!”

“Excuse me,” said a woman, stopping in the doorway of the room. She wore a pair of scrubs, had her hands on her hips, and her gaze was pinned on Wes. “How did you get in here?” she asked.

“I have a pass,” he said, pulling at his t-shirt to display the visitor’s pass sticker.

“That doesn’t mean you can be back here.”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

The nurse sighed heavily. “I understand. But that doesn’t mean you can be back here. Your girlfriend will be moved to a recovery room as soon as possible, and when she’s there, you’re welcome to camp out for as long as you like. Until then, you’re going to have to wait in the _waiting room_. Understand?” After a pause, she raised her eyebrows.

He turned to Laurel.

She didn’t want him to leave.

“I’m not leaving this hospital,” he promised.

She nodded.

He kissed her forehead.

The nurse softened slightly when she saw that Laurel was really, truly upset, but it seemed that rules were rules. Wes had to leave. Laurel didn’t try stopping him, watching him leave with the nurse at his heels.

\---

They crowded into the room, taking turns leaning over Laurel’s bed to give her awkward, one-armed hugs. Asher swiped a kiss to her cheek, too, after a moment of hesitation. “We were worried about you,” Oliver said, smiling. She nodded. She didn’t really know what to say to them.

She was still in shock from what the doctor had told her.

“Have you talked to Frank?” Michaela asked.

She shook her head. She was told that whispering was worse for her voice, but. “Why?” she whispered. Suddenly, it occurred to her. “Do you think he started the fire?”

“Probably,” Connor said.

“I mean, does he know that you’re okay?"

Laurel was incredulous. “It isn’t his business if I’m okay.” Around her, everyone shifted awkwardly. “I told you.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she forced it out. “I’m done with Frank. I broke up with him _months_ ago.”

“We know you’re pregnant,” Michaela said, sighing.

“What?” Asher said, shocked.

Laurel’s gaze went to Wes, though, because she’d only just found out after he’d been shooed from her room, and she hadn’t seen him again before he’d shuffled in with everyone else. She was _pregnant_. It didn’t seem real, didn’t seem _possible_. They’d been responsible; they’d used protection. The blood test showed it, though. She was pregnant. If she didn’t miscarry after the stress of the fire, she was going to have a _baby_.

“That has nothing to do with Frank,” Laurel said.

“It doesn’t?” Bonnie said, flat.

“I’m only going to say this once," she whispered. "Frank isn’t the father. I haven’t been with Frank in months, I’m not with him now, and I’m never going to be with him again.”

“But . . .” Asher frowned. “Who have you been boinking?”

“Me.”

There was a short, stunned moment of silence in which everyone looked at Wes, and at Laurel, and, suddenly, everyone had something to say, and said it all at once.

“ _Seriously_?” Michaela said.

“Dude, why didn’t you tell us?” Asher said

“It figures,” Connor said.

“What are you going to do?” Oliver said.

“Now isn’t the time to talk about this,” Bonnie said, and her voice was the loudest, the sharpest, quieting the rest. “Annalise was _arrested_. We need to figure out who is telling the police that Annalise was responsible for the fire. That’s our first move. They have an informant, and we need to know who it is.”

“Why?” Wes asked, an edge in his voice.

Bonnie was silent.

“She could have killed him” he went on. “Nate. It’s not like she’d ever actually tell us the truth. She could have killed him, started the fire, done everything they think she has. It makes a lot of sense. Nate learned the truth about Rebecca, so.” He shrugged. “She had to kill him.”

“Rebecca?” Oliver said, frowning.

“You think _Annalise_ killed her?” Michaela asked.

“She didn’t,” Bonnie said.

“I know,” Wes said, staring at Bonnie with a blank, unflinching face. “She just covered it up. Lied about it. And now the police have found the body that Frank—it was Frank, right?—dumped in the woods, and they’re going after to her for it.”

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Oliver said.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Bonnie said. She met Wes’s gaze with her own cold, set expression. “You’re the informant.”

His smile was humorless. “I was. The police told me I give her up for Rebecca’s murder, or I become a suspect. I agreed.” He glanced at the ground, and at Laurel, and faced Bonnie again. “I didn’t even going through with it, though. I heard about the fire. I left before I signed the papers.”

“I say you go back, and finish the job,” Connor said.

“No,” Bonnie said. “You aren’t that stupid. You know that if she goes down, all of us go down. None of us is innocent. We’re in this together. We have always been in this together. Annalise helped you when she didn’t have to. She _protected_ you. Now you’re going to pay her back.”

“Go to hell."

“If she knows she’s going to prison for the rest of her life, do you think she’ll continue to protect you?”

“Bitch,” Connor said, shaking his head.

“Connor,” Asher said.

“You’re free to hate me,” Bonnie said. “I really don’t care. But if Annalise goes down, all of you go down with her.” She glanced from person to person. “Think about that. And when you decide you’re ready to help me, I’ll be at the clinic.” She didn’t wait for anyone to answer, stalking out.

\---

She woke in the morning to find that Wes was back. He was hunched in the chair by her bed, sleeping. He’d been asked nicely to go to the station to talk to the police about the fire. The rest of them had been questioned, too, with Bonnie for representation, because there wasn’t any other way to deal with this.

Laurel was the only one who didn’t actually have to go to the station to give her statement.

She was glad he was back.

She sat up slightly. If it were possible, her back felt _worse_ than it did yesterday. She winced. The tray with a cup of water was too far to reach. She settled back against the pillows. She could call easily for a nurse, but.

She dozed.

She woke up again before long, but Wes was awake this time.

He sat up. “Hey.” He smiled.

“Hi.”

He seemed to know that she wanted help to sit up, and he pulled the tray with the water close enough for her to take the cup.

“How did it go with the police?” she asked. Her voice was stronger.

“I told them the truth.” He sighed. “I don’t know anything about who started the fire, or why.”

“What about Rebecca?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t just ask for immunity for myself. I need it for you. For Asher, for all of us. But as soon as I do that, I can’t take it back. If it doesn’t work, I’ve exposed all of us. And I was ready to sell her out when they showed me the photographs of Rebecca’s body, but . . .” He rubbed his face. “I don’t know now.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Rebecca.”

He sighed.

“I don’t even have a very good excuse. I just didn’t want it to be true, and . . .” She bit her lip. “I’m tired of you hurting. You’ve suffered enough. I didn’t want to be the one to make you suffer more.”

He seemed to consider her for a moment.

“What?”

“Why are you with me?” he asked. “I’m serious. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Wes,” she said, incredulous.

“It’s not that I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you, or—or like I used to sit around last year, thinking about asking you. I just—” He swallowed. “I always thought you were great. Smart. And you actually _care_ about things. You’re amazing.”

“You think you aren’t?” she asked.

“I think . . . it _is_ real for me, but, honestly, I’m scared that it really _isn’t_ for you. Frank—”

“Frank?” she repeated. “Wes, believe me. I’m _done_ with Frank.”

He was quiet.

“Do you want to know why I’m with you?” she said. “It’s because—” She lowered her hoarse, struggling voice to a whisper. “Because you listen when I talk, and you always have, and it didn’t start after I proved that I was smart, or because you wanted to sleep with me, because, let’s be honest, that’s what Frank was interested in. He might have fallen for me, but.” She sighed. “It’s because you’re _good_ , Wes. You’re kind, and you listen when _anyone_ talks. And you’ve been through such terrible things, and you’re still trying, still living, still _fighting._ That’s why I’m with you. Because I love you. Because you . . . you wear way too much plaid, and make dad jokes.”

“I don’t—”

“Halloween,” she whispered. “You asked me why skeletons don’t go trick-or-treating, then told me it was because they have no _body_ to go with.” She raised her eyebrows. “I know you remember. You were really proud of yourself.”

He laughed a little, dropping his gaze to the ground for a moment.

“I love you,” she said.

He looked up. “I love you, too.” He took her hand in both of his, kissing her knuckles. She smiled, and he smiled, too. There was a knock on the door, and nurse came bustling in, beaming at them, and asking Laurel about her pain.

\---

They were sprawled on her bed in circles of papers, pens, highlighters, and textbooks when she told him. She had to tell him, had to talk about with him. It would be impossible to study until they’d talked about it.

“I think I want to keep this baby,” she told him.

Slowly, he took the highlighter out of his mouth. “Okay.” He didn’t look freaked, or like he was ready to argue.

“I know that we thought I was probably just going to miscarry after the fire, but I haven’t. Not yet. And if I don’t, we have to make a choice, and I don’t think I can make the choice to have an abortion. It’s not them I’m against them. I understand the decision. It’s just that I know I can do this. I know _we_ can do this. I mean, the baby would even be born in the summer, so I wouldn’t have to take time off school.”

He nodded.

“I’m not being crazy, right?”

“No.”

“Really?”

He hesitated. “Well, I won’t say I’m not scared that everything won’t spiral out of control again. We don’t exactly live normal lives. But if you want do to this, then . . .” He shrugged. “Then I say we do this.”

“We can’t take this back,” she warned.

“Honestly?”

She nodded.

“I’ve been thinking about it, too, and . . . if you want to get an abortion, I’m okay with it. But I’ve never really had a family. I had my mom, and I lost her. The couple that fostered me ended up divorcing, and I was put in a home.” He sighed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that _you_ ’ve become my family, and I think you’re right. I think we could do it.”

She bit her lip.

“Should we maybe finish talking about this _after_ we take the wills and trust exam?” he added, and she smiled, and stole his highlighter.

\---

Annalise was staying with Bonnie until everything was sorted, so that was where they met. Laurel was exhausted from throwing up throughout the night, and it didn’t help that the house was overheated, and everyone was tense, and _Frank_ was there.

“Why is Frank here again?” Connor asked.

“I’m here to help,” Frank said.

It was silent.

“Is there anything that we don’t know?” Michaela asked, looking at Annalise.

“No,” Annalise said, unflinching.

“We can’t have any more secrets,” Laurel said. “If we’re in this together, we’re in this together. Nobody keeps secrets.”

\---

“Now I understand that you’re unsure about the date of conception,” said the technician, prepping to do the ultrasound. Laurel had changed into a backless hospital gown, because they told her doing the ultrasound transvaginally would get the clearest, most accurate view of the fetus. “But you believe you’re about eight weeks at this point, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Laurel said, fidgeting. “I think. It could be closer to seven.”

Wes took her hand.

It was uncomfortable, and it took a minute for the technician to find what she needed. “There,” she said, turning the screen for Laurel to see, and pointing, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

It was really just a little blurry blob, but Laurel was breathless at the sight.

This was real.

She was _pregnant_.

“There’s the head,” said the technician, “and the body, and you can see one of the arms.” They listened to the heartbeat, which made everything even more impossibly real. “Good, strong heartbeat,” she said. Laurel was starting to tear up, but she looked at Wes, and he laughed at her tears, and squeezed her hand, beaming. It took a minute for the technician to measure the baby, adding notes right to the screen. “It looks like you’re measuring eight weeks, zero days. Congratulations. Everything looks healthy.”

Laurel wiped quickly at her cheeks.

The technician printed pictures of the ultrasound for them, then told them Dr. Patel would be in to speak with them soon.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Laurel said, staring at one of the pictures.

“I think we are.”

She glanced up to see his smile. “We’re going to have a _baby_ ,” she said. She wasn’t going to pretend that she wasn’t worried, that she didn’t lose sleep at night wondering how they were going to do this. She couldn’t help herself in that moment, though. She was happy. He brushed her hair behind her ear. “l love you,” she told him, and he kissed her.

\---

It was Michaela who figured it out in the end. She came to Laurel’s apartment in the middle of the night. They stayed up the rest of the night, looking over every file in the case, and strategizing.

They didn’t have any evidence, but Laurel was certain.

It was Wes who ended up standing in court to question Renee about her relationship with Nate.

He used Laurel’s trick.

He seemingly backed himself into a corner with his questions, going in for the kill only when Renee was certain she’d won. It worked. She confessed on the stand to killing Nate accidently, and when she realized, she tried to take it back, and to say it was self-defense, and to shout that she hadn’t started the fire. The court was in an uproar. From where she sat, Annalise was staring at the ground, and smiling.

They celebrated with pizza at Michaela’s.

“I can’t believe it was actually the jealous, scorned lover that did it,” Connor said. “I mean, I know our lives are fucked up. I just didn’t realize they’d gotten so fucked up they’d turned into _Othello_.”

\---

She was fumbling to get her keys out of her purse while she climbed the stairs of her building, only to stop in her tracks at the top of the stars, and the sight of Frank in front of her door. He turned to her with his hands in his pockets, and a sheepish, puppy dog look on his face. She straightened, pushing the straps of her purse back over her shoulder, and starting for her apartment, and him.

“Hi,” he said.

“I’m surprised to find you waiting _outside_ the apartment,” she replied.

He was silent.

“What do you need?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“I came to apologize to you.”

“For?”

“Everything.”

She sighed. “Frank, I—I could forgive you for a lot of things. If that’s what you want, okay. I’ll give you that. I forgive you for lying to me. I forgive you for—for telling me that I had to get to know you, then refusing to _let_ me get to know you, and making me feel bad for both. I forgive you for running off, and ignoring my calls, then showing up again in my apartment, and acting like _I’d_ betrayed _you_.”

“But?”

“But you know that I can never forgive you for killing Wes’s father, right?”

“He wasn’t a good man,” Frank said.

“That isn’t the _point_ ,” she said, gaping. “You killed the man right in front of him! It was his _father_. My father isn’t a good man. Are you going to kill him, too?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t sorry because you did it, though. You’re sorry because I’m not okay with it. And there’s a difference, and it matters.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“I want you to say . . . I want you to say that you understand, and you’re going to move on.”

“You really love him? The puppy? You think he can take of you?”

“I don’t need him to."

His gaze flickered from her face to the slight, growing curve of her belly.

“I’m happy for you,” he said.

She didn’t know if she believed him, but she wanted to. She wanted to think that somewhere in him there was still goodness left, and that was the part of him that she had begun to fall in love with. “Thanks,” she said.

“I understand, and I’m going to move on.”

She nodded.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but, after a beat, he nodded, and left, heading for the stairs. She watched him go. He never glanced back.

\---

The text from Michaela said that she really needed Laurel to quiz her in business law, and to come by the house at four.

Apparently, it wasn’t a request.

Laurel texted Michaela that she was there, and Michaela came downstairs to let her in. “I’ve got flashcards, and I’ve color-coded my outlines, and I have Connor’s notes from when he took it last semester. He uses this weird, coded shorthand, but I made a key that we can use to decode it. Seriously. I don’t know why he can’t write notes like a normal person.” She talked the whole way up to her apartment.

She opened the door, and Laurel followed her in.

“Surprise!”

Laurel gaped, and began to laugh, realizing that the apartment was decked in pastel blue decorations, that all of her friends were there, and this was a party.

“You didn’t think we’d forget to throw you a baby shower, did you?” Michaela asked, grinning.

Laurel got hugs from everyone.

“I don’t know half the people here,” she whispered.

She saw that Meggy was there, making polite conversation with a couple of girls that Laurel barely knew.

“They’re at Middleton with us,” Michaela said. She lowered her voice, leaning in. “The more people at the shower, the more gifts you get.”

Wes reached her.

“You knew about this?” she said.

“It was my idea,” he replied. “Or, well, it was my idea to have a shower, and I mentioned it to Michaela, and she took over. Get ready for a lot of weird, baby-themed games.”

They started with a game in which everyone had given their baby picture to Michaela, she’d posted them on a board, and Laurel had to guess who each one was. It was actually fun. She only got about three people right, and that was only because she’d seen Wes’s baby picture before, Casey was the only person with red hair, and Asher looked freakishly like himself when he was baby.

They had cake, and opened her presents. Michaela was right. She got everything they needed.

Annalise had gotten them a crib, a rocker, _and_ a fancy car seat for her car.

Connor, Asher, and Michaela had bought them a stroller.

They got a ton of clothes, toys, and diapers, too, and a basket of random useful items like rash cream from one of the women in their class who had three kids.

After the presents, there was some weird game in which they sniffed baby diapers full of chocolate, or something.

Laurel didn’t fully understand the game.

She wanted to force Wes to endure it with her, but he’d gone to the bathroom, and when he returned, the game had already started without him. Now he was sequestered in the corner with Connor, drinking. It was strange. They’d become unlikely friends over the course of Annalise’s trial, and their new, shared distrust of Frank, Bonnie, and, well, pretty much everything. She caught his gaze, and narrowed her eyes at him.

He grinned.

But after a minute, he came to sit by her, and reached for a diaper to sniff. “Snickers,” he said.

“You’re supposed to write it down on your card,” Michaela said.

“Right.”

Laurel bit her lip to bite in a smile, and leaned into him, hooking her arm through his, and pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

\---

 

_ii. “All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”_

 

There was a guy in on the couch in Annalise’s house when they arrived, sitting with his laptop in his lap, and scrolling on the computer, frowning at the screen. He was black, clean-shaven, and their age, good-looking. They glanced among themselves, but none of them knew who he was, or what he was doing at Annalise’s house.

“Who are you?” Connor asked, tactless.

It took a moment, but he glanced up. “I’m Wes,” he said, blinking at them like that explained it perfectly. He looked at his computer again.

“O— _kay_ . . .” Connor said.

Had Annalise chosen another student to work for her?

From the front of the house, there was the sound of the front door opening, and the click of heels on the floor. Annalise was first into the room, and Bonne was behind her. She sighed at the sight of them, and dropped her bag on a chair. “If you people are here, I expect that means you’ve got something for me.” She raised her eyebrows, put her hands on her hips.

Michaela spoke before any of them could even try to get a word in, explaining the evidence that _she_ uncovered.

“Good,” Annalise said, nodding. Wes chose that moment to close his laptop, and move to his feet, drawing her attention. “What about you?” she asked. Her voice was different, kinder. “What are you here for?”

“I need your car. Remember? I texted you.”

“Right,” she said. She went to her purse, rummaging, and pulling her keys out. “I need it back by tomorrow at noon. Fill up the gas when you’re done. And pull my seat up after, too. You push it back so far I can’t reach the damn pedals.”

“It’s not my fault you’re short,” he said, taking the keys, and she snorted, and swatted his shoulder, smiling at his back.

It was after they heard the front door shut that Annalise saw their confused, curious faces. “What?” she said, and the softness was gone. “You’ve never seen a mother with her son?”

\---

She saw that he was in the kitchen, and passed it, only to turn on her heel, take a breath, and go in. “Hey,” she said. He looked up, and smiled, but his gaze returned right to the newspaper in front of him.

She didn’t know a lot about Annalise’s son.

She knew that he was quiet, that his mother clearly adored him, and that he never seemed even remotely interested in what was going on with Annalise’s cases.

He seemed nice enough.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked, picking up an apple for something to do with her hands.

In answer, he looked at her, and it was expectant.

“Did Annalise pick me to work for her because of Frank?”

He sighed.

That was her answer, wasn’t it?

“Look,” he said. “I know she’s tough. Here’s the thing. If you want to prove you’re more than Frank’s girl, you can’t argue it. You need _evidence_. She’s pushing you because she wants you to _prove_ that you deserve her respect, that you deserve . . . _everyone’s_ respect. You get a lot of shit when you’re a lawyer, especially when you’re a woman, or when you aren’t white.” He shrugged. “She’s trying to see if you’ve got what it takes. And if you do, okay. Prove it.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.” There was a long, quiet pause, and she turned to leave.

But when she was at the door, he stopped her. “For the record, though?” he said, and she glanced at him. “My mother picks her students. Not Frank. If you’re here, it’s because _she_ picked you.”

She nodded.

He smiled, and turned a page in his newspaper.

She didn’t smile until she’d turned, and left the kitchen, and she couldn’t keep herself from smiling at the swell of new, determined kind of confidence that was rising in her chest.

\---

She was surprised to see Wes at the bar with a group of guys a few days later. It was strange to see him with people, nursing a beer, and laughing at something that someone was saying. She thought it was a pretty good look for him, though.

As though he felt her gaze, he glanced in her direction, and saw her.

She smiled.

He smiled, too, and raised a beer to her in salute.

She went to say hi, weaving her way through the throngs of people to get to him, and was gratified to see that he turned in anticipation of her approach. “I proved my worth,” she told him in greeting. “In fact, I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say I kicked a bit of ass. So.” She grinned.

“I’m glad,” he said, smiling, and revealing the dimples in his cheeks.

“Okay,” she said, leaning on the bar that was behind them. “I feel like you know a lot about me, but I don’t know a lot about you.” She raised her eyebrows.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, amused.

“Do you prefer Coke, or Pepsi?”

“Coke.”

“Dogs, or cats?”

“Dogs.”

“Ninja Turtles, or Power Rangers?”

“Ninja Turtles.”

“Obviously,” she said, and he laughed. “Seriously, though.” She took a sip of her beer, and tilted her head at him. “You’re Annalise’s son, and . . . ?”

“Well, um.” He tilted his head. “I’m getting my master’s in architecture.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I thought about being a lawyer. I kind of had this image of myself, like, helping the little, downtrodden guy.” His smile was sweet, self-deprecating. She liked it. “But I’ve spent enough time with my mother to know that I don’t think I’d actually _like_ being a lawyer.”

“I think I’m going to _love_ it,” she said.

He laughed. “Good. We need lawyers that actually care.”

The sincerity in his gaze made her heart beat just the littlest bit faster. “You’re sweet,” she said. He was. He was sweet, and charming, and attractive. He was tall, broad-shouldered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She laughed.

“Keating!” exclaimed a large, drunk guy, clapping Wes’s shoulder.

“John,” Wes said, slightly amused, and slightly exasperated. “This is my friend, Laurel. Laurel, this is John. He’s in my program.”

“Nice to meet you,” Laurel said.

She was pulled into Wes’s group of friends, and introduced, ended up spending the rest of the evening with them, and with him, drinking and talking and trashing him completely in a game of darts.

\---

They were buried in _mountains_ of files from the case, working their way slowly though them when Wes came in with a box of pizza, a 2 liter of coke, and a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

“Sustenance,” Asher said, pumping a fist in the air.

But, of course, Annalise finally emerged from her office at that moment. “I was beginning to think you got lost,” she said, taking the pizza from him, and the soda, and the carton. “You better not have put anything green on here.” She eyed him.

“Pepperoni, sausage, and bacon,” he replied. “Oh, and broccoli, too. Obviously.”

“Smartass,” she said, and started out of the room again.

“Isn’t that for us?” Asher asked, frowning.

“No,” Annalise said, shooting him a look of disbelief over her shoulder, and returning to her office.

“Sorry,” Wes said, amused.

Laurel smiled softly, and dropped her gaze to the file in front of her.

He followed his mother to her office.

“Nice of your boyfriend to bring his mother some dinner,” Michaela said, humorless. She tossed a file at Connor, and smirked to herself. “It figures Annalise would have a real mama’s boy for a son.

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Laurel said.

“Girl,” Asher said. “Come on. We’re your peeps.”

“We’re friends.”

“That boy wants to be friends with you as much as Frank wants to be friends with you,” Michaela said, raising a single, perfectly arched eyebrow at Laurel.

\---

He took her around the city in the afternoon, showing her the buildings that were his favorite, and listing off everything about their history, and their architecture. She loved his enthusiasm, loved that he was a fountain of facts about this stuff because he just so clearly, truly _loved_ it. After, he took her to this little hole-in-the-wall, Haitian place for dinner.

It was _amazing_.

“My mom isn’t much of a cook, so we ate out for most of my childhood.” He smiled. “If there’s a good place to eat in Philly, I’ve eaten there.”

“Is this your favorite?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s like comfort food.” He hesitated. “It’s what I used to have when I was little. I’m from Haiti.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, um.” He nodded. “I’m adopted. I was born in Haiti, and my mom immigrated over with me when I was baby, and we lived in Ohio until I was twelve. We didn’t really have a lot, but we managed. She, ah. She was sick, I guess. She committed suicide, and I was in the system for a couple of months, then I was adopted.” He shrugged. “And that’s pretty much my whole life story.”

“Nice to know you,” she said, smiling.

On the way to the train, he took her hand, and she bit her lip to keep herself from smiling too widely.

\---

He kissed her on her doorstep after that very first date, and texted her half an hour later to ask if she wanted to go to dinner again. He was ridiculous. She’d hadn’t really dated this way since she was in high school, and that was when dating was a nerve-wrecking, heart-pounding, sweaty-hand-holding affair.

She liked it much better now, especially when it was sweet, easy-going Wes she was dating.

\---

She returned to the bedroom with a glass of water, putting it on the little bedside table. “Now I know why you’re always at your mother’s house,” she said. “It’s the food. Your fridge has a jar of jelly, a pack of batteries, and a carton of expired orange juice.” She climbed onto the bed.

“There are Cheerios in the pantry,” he said.

“Expired?”

“I don’t think Cheerios can expire.” He paused. “Right?”

She laughed.

He reached for her, dragging her across the bed, and into his chest, and went willing, happily. He leaned in like he was going to kiss her, but her smile was irrepressible. His breath was warm on her lips before he tilted his head suddenly to press his lips to her neck, sneaking his hands under the tails of her shirt, and renewing her laughter, making her gasp. Or, well, it was actually his shirt. She moved her hand between them, and pushed.

He fell onto his back easily, and she was able to straddle his waist, pulling his shirt over her head, and tossing it.

\---

She knew that she shouldn’t be nervous about having a nice, normal dinner with her nice, normal boyfriend’s parents, but she was. It wasn’t her fault that the situation was weird, and it _was_ weird. His mother was Laurel’s professor, and her _boss_.

“I made her promise to behave,” Wes said, taking her hand while the walked up the drive.

“She hates me, you know.”

“She does not hate you,” he said. “I think you’re actually her favorite this year. Don’t give me that look. I’m serious. I believe her wording was _she’s got brains, balls, and a nice healthy dose of self-righteousness._ ”

“I am not self-righteous!” she protested.

“Really.” He smirked. “Okay.”

She shoved him in reply, which only made him laugh, and Wes opened the door of the house, starting to call to his parents that they were there.

He was cut off by the sound of something glass shattering.

“Don’t you dare!” Annalise screamed. “Don’t you dare say I’m crazy! Don’t you dare!”

Wes took off for stairs, sprinting up two at a time. She followed him. They burst into the bedroom at the back of the hall to find that Sam had a hold of Annalise’s arms, and he was talking over her, was ignoring the way she struggled to pull out of his grasp. “Get off her!” Wes yelled. Sam released her, and held up his hands, but Wes was already in between the pair, and he shoved him back away from her.

“Son,” Sam said.

“I’m not your son,” Wes spat. “You never wanted me. You never liked me.”

“That isn’t true. You _are_ my son. I _love_ you.”

“You don’t love anyone but yourself,” Annalise said, snarling. She was mess, crying and shaking and dressed in a nightgown that was falling off her shoulder. But, in that moment, she was as terrifying as she was in court for a client. “You’re a lying, cheating bastard, and a murderer.”

Laurel’s heart stopped.

“I did not kill that girl,” Sam said, gritting his teeth.

“He did,” Annalise panted. “Lila. He murdered her. He _fucked_ her, and got her pregnant, and when she wouldn’t have an abortion, he killed her!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Call 911,” Wes said.

It took a moment for Laurel to realize that he was talking to her.

“Laurel, this is a misunderstanding,” Sam said, turning to her. “I have been unfaithful to my wife, and she is upset.” He lifted a hand like he meant to reassure her. “But I am not a murderer.” He took a step toward her.

Wes shoved him, and swung a punch, snarling at him not to go near her. Sam stumbled at the blow, only for his face contorted with fury, and he lunged, grabbed Wes’s shirt, and smacked him across the face. Annalise screamed. Wes swung another punch, but his father was faster, and smacked him again, and again. Annalise tried to get between them, shouting at Sam to get his hands off her boy.

Laurel fumbled to get her phone out, to dial the police.

He turned on Annalise, and shoved her against the wall, pinning her in place with a hand around her neck.

Laurel was gasping the address to the operator on the phone. “I’m talking to the police,” she shouted, but it was like Sam hadn’t even heard her. He didn’t hear his son either, and was blindsided when Wes used the chair for a weapon, swinging the chair at his father’s head.

Sam was thrown to the ground.

Suddenly, it was silent but for the sound of everyone’s fast, heavy breathing.

The operator on the phone was asking for more information, for Laurel to tell her what was going on.

“Baby,” Annalise said, stumbling to Wes. He hugged her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, and over Wes’s shoulder, her teary, bloody face was visible to Laurel. “I’m sorry, Baby. I’m so, so sorry.”

From the ground, Sam groaned.

“My dresser,” Annalise said, sharp. She pulled from Wes’s arms to look at Laurel. “My dresser!” She motioned with her hand. “Top drawer!”

Laurel didn’t know what she was trying to say, but the dresser was right by her, and she tore open the top drawer, finding the gun nestled in among socks. She picked it up quickly, and Annalise was instantly at her side, taking it from her hand, and removing the safety, cocking it at Sam.

“Move, and I’ll shoot your cheating, murdering ass,” she breathed.

In the distance, there was the sound of sirens.

Bonnie got to the house right when the police were taking Sam down the stairs in handcuffs. She was stunned. But she swallowed, and seemed to swallow her shock, looking at where the rest of them were standing at the top of the stairs.

“He killed Lila,” Laurel said.

Bonnie was silent.

Beside her, Wes was stiff despite his mother’s arm around him. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and his lip was puffy with a red, nasty cut, too. Still, he was watching his father being forcibly taken from the house by the police. His _father_ was a murderer. She looked at the swell of his bruised, cut cheek, and the clench of his jaw, and the way his eyes were pinned on the scene unfolding below him. This wasn’t the kind of thing that you recovered from. Not really. This was the kind of thing that changed you at your core. Hesitantly, she reached for his hand.

His fingers flexed slightly, then curled.

He grasped her hand.

She stepped in closer to him, and when one of the officers started up the stairs towards them, she stayed right beside him.

\---

It started when Sam attacked Laurel at the top of the stairs because he was free, because he’d been released on lack of evidence for _murder_ , and he’d realized that Laurel had the evidence. It was defense of another. It started with Sam attacking Laurel, and ended when Sam was dead on the ground in a pool of his blood.

“What do we do?” Connor asked, breathless. He tore his hands through his hair. “What are we going to do?!”

\---

The nurses called Laurel on the intercom. “Ms. Castillo?” asked a voice, and Laurel blinked sleepily, pushing to sit up. “I have the baby’s grandmother at the desk. Is now a good time for her to visit?”

“Now is fine,” she said, glancing at Wes, and seeing that he was waking up, too.

Wes got out of the chair that he’d dozed in. “How’d you sleep?” he asked. He picked up the baby from his little plastic box, and brought him to Laurel.

“Good,” she said, eager to hold her baby.

There was a knock on the door. Wes called for her to come in. Annalise opened the door slowly, peeking in, and smiling at the sight of them. She had a bouquet of flowers with her, and a sweet stuffed bear. “Hey!” she said, speaking so softly. Wes greeted her with a hug.

“Hi, Grandma,” Laurel said. “I’m Christopher. I’m so excited to meet you.”

“Hi, Christopher,” Annalise said, sitting in the chair by the bed, and reaching to lay her hand carefully on Christopher’s small, blanket-wrapped belly. “Oh, Wes. He is _beautiful_.” She brushed the back of her fingers over Christopher’s fine, downy black hair before she lifted her gaze to Laurel, and her expression was so warm, so _kind_. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Good,” Laurel said. “Happy. Do you want to hold him?”

“Please,” Annalise said. She took the baby with a smile. “Hello, Christopher. Hello. You are the most beautiful thing.”

Wes said that Annalise had lost a baby before she’d adopted him.

Smiling, Laurel looked at where Wes stood by her bed, and he caught her gaze. He smiled, too. “Did you see?” Laurel said, looking at Annalise. “He’s got Wes’s dimples.” That was what she’d hoped for: for the baby to be healthy, to be born without any complications, and to have Wes’s dimples, and she’d gotten everything she’d wished for.

\---

 

_iii. “But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!”_

 

She pursed her lips when there wasn’t an answer, feeling a swell of sharp, drunk irritation at the fact that Annalise had called all of them over here, and Laurel was the only one who managed to show up. Apparently, Annalise herself couldn’t be bothered. She sighed, and called for Annalise again, pulling her phone out to text Wes again.

She frowned at the sound of a phone buzzing softly.

“Wes?”

It was silent.

She called him, and his phone started going off. She followed the sound. She wasn’t prepared for what she found.

He was sprawled on the ground, and blood was pooling on the ground under him. “Wes!” She half-ran, half-stumbled to him, falling to her knees at his side. “Please, no,” she murmured, tearing up. He was _shot_. And before he’d been shot, there had been some kind of struggle; his face was bloodied, and his cheek was swelling with a bruise. “No, no, no!” She touched his cheek, and felt his neck, releasing a sob when she felt the faintest of heartbeats.

He was alive.

“Hold on, okay? Just—just hold on. Do you hear me, Wes?” Shaking, she fumbled to dial 911 on her phone. “Come on, Wes. Please.” Her fingers were slick with his blood. “Please, _please_. I need you to be okay. Just hold on!”

She couldn’t lose him.

She heard the operator’s calm, certain voice. _What is your emergency?_ She sucked in a breath, and the world exploded around her.

\---

“He’s in surgery,” Meggy said, holding onto Laurel’s desperate, teary gaze, and speaking so calmly, so firmly. “Laurel, it’s going to be okay. He’s in surgery, and as soon as I know more, I’ll tell you.”

\---

He’d been shot twice. The wound in his shoulder was superficial, but the wound in his head was serious. Surgery was successful, or that was what Meggy told her. They stopped the bleeding, and he was going to live. It was likely that he’d suffered brain damage, though.

They wouldn’t know until he woke up, and he hadn’t.

“He _is_ going to, though?” Laurel asked, sitting in the wheelchair that Meggy had gotten her, and used to take her to Wes.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him. If she stared at him for just another minute longer, she would see him open his eyes. The machines that circled him hummed in reassurance. He was alive. He needed to wake up, and prove that everything was going to be okay. She stared at his blank, bandaged face, and _willed_ him to open his eyes.

“He has to,” she whispered.

“I’ll let you have some privacy,” Meggy said, soft, and she left the room without giving an answer.

\---

She thought for half a day that Annalise was going to try to get assigned Wes’s guardian, but she shouldn’t have worried.

The attorney who handled the case interviewed them, recommended that Laurel be appointed his guardian, and, by the end of the afternoon, the judge had signed off on Laurel’s appointment. Laurel was made his guardian. His fate was in her hands, but it was the smallest of victories. It didn’t give her the power to open his eyes. To fix whatever was wrong in his brain. To go back in time, and save him from ever ending up in a bed they said he’d never, ever leave.

\---

“This is what you wanted, right?” she asked. “Wes is comatose. Now everything will be perfect. Or, wait, is this bad? Now you have no one to blame for everything that goes wrong in your life. Does this mean you actually have to take responsibility for your life?”

Connor was silent, clenching his jaw, and refusing her gaze, looking at the wall.

“Go away,” Laurel said, shaking her head. “Just go. Leave.”

“We want to be here for you,” Asher said.

She scoffed.

“Laurel,” Michaela said, saying Laurel’s name like she was imploring her to be reasonable.

“I don’t want you here!” Laurel exclaimed.

They were silent.

“How is that hard for you to understand? I’m not pushing you away because I’m hurting. _I don’t want you here_!” The anger was a living, breathing thing inside her. “You don’t _get_ to be here. To come to my apartment, and barge in, and say you’re worried about me because you want to feel better about yourself. No. That isn’t how this is going to work.”

“Do you want justice?” Michaela asked, and she sounded like Annalise.

“I’ll get him justice.”

“We can _help_ you get him justice,” Asher said, earnest.

“Why?” she demanded. “Because he was your friend? Because you cared about him? Because you knew that he had your back, and you want to have his back?” She glared. “Or is it because you feel like shit for the way you treated him?”

In the end, none of them had the guts to reply to that.

“Go away,” she said. “Get the fuck out of my apartment. You aren’t welcome here. We aren’t friends. And I don’t need your help."

They listened to her at last, filing out of the apartment in silence. For a moment, she thought that Asher had something to say, but he changed his mind, and gave her a weak, apologetic smile, and closed the door after himself. If she were calmer, she would be willing to recognize that Asher _had_ been a friend to Wes.

But the anger that burned her stomach was everything she had at this point.

If she didn’t have anger, she’d be left with confusion and fear and hopelessness, and she couldn’t do that, couldn’t shut down, couldn’t give up on him, and herself, and _it._

\---

If the circumstances were different, she might have had an abortion. She would have talked to Wes, and they probably would’ve ended up at a clinic, and gone through with it together, knowing that now wasn’t the right time for a baby. But circumstances weren’t different.

She sat by Wes’s bed, taking his hand.

In these quiet, sill moments with him, she couldn’t help wanting to beg, and bargain.

“It’s a boy,” she told him

She reached out, cupping his cheek. She had shaved his beard yesterday, and he looked much younger now, clean-shaven, and sweet-faced. She had meant just to give him a trim, but. It made her think of when she’d met him, seeing him clean-shaven. Back then, he’d been so eager, so optimistic, so _good._ If they’d gotten together back at the start, could that have changed the course of events? She’d been wondering a lot lately about things like that, about the what-ifs, could-have-beens, and in-another-lifes. It was useless, but she couldn’t help herself.

“What should we name him?” she asked.

In the silence, her eyes prickled with tears, and she wiped at them hastily, laughing a little when she looked at Wes like he was going to be smiling at her stupid, hormonal tears.

“Annalise’s trial starts this afternoon,” she said. “I don’t know what I want to happen. No. I do. I want her to be found not guilty, because she isn’t guilty. Right? Hey, listen. I know I told you I’d figure out who did this, and I haven’t yet, but I’m going to. I _am_. And this might not make you feel any better, but Annalise has everyone on the case, too. She’s got to save her ass, you know? And she loves you.”

Just as it had been for months, his face was peaceful with sleep.

She took his hand again, clasping it tightly in both of her hands. “She does. She loves you. I do, too. You know I love you, right?” Her throat closed slightly, and she swallowed at tears. “You have to know. I love you. I might not have meant to say it that one time, but I _meant_ it. I love you, Wes.”

If he loved her, too, she’d never actually know, and she didn’t know which was worse: that he’d been shot thinking that she didn’t love him, or that she’d never know if he loved her.

“I was thinking about Christopher for a name,” she said.

“I like it,” Meggy said.

Laurel was startled, but she wiped at her cheeks again, and mustered a smile for Meggy. “Meggy,” she greeted. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

There was a pause.

“I wanted to talk to you, actually,” Meggy said, stepping more fully into the small hospital room. “Here’s the thing. I know you’ve been doing a lot of research about neurology—”

“How?” Laurel asked, sharp.

“What?”

“How do you know I’ve been doing research?” she demanded.

“I . . . Michaela—”

Laurel should have known. “I’m glad you’re friends with Michaela,” Laurel said, “but I’m _not_ friends with her. And I’d prefer if the two of you didn’t talk about me behind my back.”

“Laurel,” Meggy said, concerned. “I’m not trying to attack you. I’m—”

“You’re trying to tell me that I need to pull the plug on Wes, aren’t you?” Laurel asked. “Right? That’s all anyone is interested in telling me lately. _He’s a vegetable, Laurel._ But, you know, I stomped on my pride, and I went to my father, and I have the money to keep him alive, so I’m not pulling the plug, and the expert medical opinion of his ex-girlfriend isn’t going to convince me I should.”

“I’m trying to tell you that there’s a study I think you should look into,” Meggy said.

It was quiet.

“I know things have been rough for you,” Meggy added. “But you’ve got to stop thinking everyone’s against you. _I’m not_. I’m on your side. I care about him, too, and I care about you.”

“I know,” Laurel said, rubbing her forehead. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I am.”

“It’s okay.”

“There’s a study?”

Meggy held up what looked like a flash drive. “It’s got a lot of annoying medical jargon, but I figured you’ve become an expert.” She handed the flash drive to Laurel.

“Thanks.”

She turned to leave, only to pause. “I _am_ on your side, Laurel. It isn’t just you against the world. I promise.” She smiled.

Alone, Laurel closed her eyes for a moment. She breathed in slowly, and breathed out. She looked at Wes, and rose to her feet, leaning to press a kiss to his forehead. “I’ve got to go,” she murmured. “I’ll be back soon.” At the doorway, she touched a hand to the slight, growing swell of her belly. The whole world might not be against her, but she was going to fight like it was, and she was going to win.

\---

There were days, of course, when she thought that she just couldn’t do it anymore, when the exhaustion was overwhelming, and she gave herself over to tears, curing up in a ball in bed. She was alone. She was trying to find a murderer who could be anyone. She was young, pregnant, and single, because the love of her life was in a coma. She was fighting a war by herself, and she was weaponless.

She _had_ to do it, though.

\---

She was in the thick of studying for the wills and trusts exam when somebody knocked loudly on the door, interrupting her. She frowned. She’d thought about ordering something to eat, but she hadn’t actually done it.

She checked the peephole.

She opened the door a foot, and was silent, standing in the opening, and waiting for an explanation of why he was on her doorstep.

“Hi,” Frank said.

She raised her eyebrows.

“I brought you dinner.” He held up a bag. “I just . . . wanted to see how you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“You never answer my calls, or . . .”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

He nodded. “I’m worried about you,” he said. The nervousness was gone from his eyes. “Everyone is worried about you. You’re alone, and _pregnant_ , and—” He glanced at the swell of her belly, and when he looked her in the fact again, his eyes were pleading. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about Annalise?” she asked.

“Annalise is letting us help her.”

“From what I’ve heard on the news, you aren’t doing a very good job.”

“Laurel, please.”

She sighed. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not. But I—I can’t look at you. I can’t be around you. It’s all I can do just to get out of bed every morning, okay? That’s not a cry for help. That’s me telling you that I’m doing this the only way I can, and that is on my own. Okay?” She needed him to understand. “If I need help, I’ll ask.”

“Okay.”

She needed.

“Take the food at least.” He held the bag out for her. “Chinese.”

“Thanks."

She took the food, and she closed the door, bolting the lock. She didn’t immediately hear his footsteps. But she returned to the sofa, because it wasn’t her problem if he wanted to linger at her door.

\---

Annalise was convicted. The argument was that she had murdered her husband, and murdered her client, Rebecca, because Rebecca knew that she’d murdered her husband, and was going to go to the police, and when Annalise feared that her student, Rebecca’s boyfriend, Wes, had learned the truth, too, she attempted to murder him as well, and blew up her house to cover it up. Truthfully, it made a lot of sense.

Laurel had expected her to shout at the verdict, to fight.

Instead, she was silent.

Laurel watched them escort her from the courtroom, feeling an emptiness in her chest where anger had lived for months.

She knew that Annalise had loved Wes, too.

There was a part of her that would always blame Annalise for being the reason that Wes was at her house that day. It wasn’t as simple as that, though. Not really. If it hadn’t been for their fight, Wes would’ve been with Laurel that day, and he would’ve gone to the house with her, and he would have survived. There was a part of her that would always blame herself, too.

\---

She couldn’t help tearing up a little when Asher came into the room with a large stuffed bear, a bunch of balloons that got stuck in the doorway, and a big, stupid grin on his face. She hadn’t wanted any of them here, but she was glad he’d come anyway. She could admit it. Asher was different. He’d been texting her for months. And even though she never responded, he kept on texting, and updating her, giving her ridiculous name suggestions for the baby, and saying _did you know your baby is the size of a peach now?_ She was glad he was here.

He paused. “It’s okay that I’m here, right?” He rocked on his heels.

“It’s okay,” she assured, smiling.

She shifted to sit up properly, and he came in further, putting the bear on a chair, and managing to get the balloons under control. “He’s cute,” he said. He scooted a chair to the side of her bed, sitting.

“His name is Christopher,” Laurel said, looking from him to her sweet, tiny son. “Chris.” He had soft brown skin, and a layer of downy black fuzz on his head, and she was in love with his sweet, curling little eyelashes. “Do you want to hold him?” she asked, and laughed at the way Asher’s eyes went wide, but he cleared his throat, and he nodded, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Use the sanitizer,” she said, nodding the dispenser on the wall.

He did.

He bent, and she put her baby into his arms, telling him how to hold a tiny, squirming new human.

“Dude, he’s _small_ ,” Asher said.

She smiled.

“Wait, let me get my phone,” he said, and he shifted, and seemed to think for a second. “Take a picture of me with him on your phone, and text it to me, okay?” He glanced from Chris to Laurel, and raised his eyebrows in excitement.

She grinned, and picked up her phone, ignoring the texts from her stepmother.

She took a couple of photos, and he leaned in with Chris to let her take a selfie of them, telling her that he was posting that on instagram, and on Facebook, and she took Christopher back in order for him to do it right that minute.

She shook her head at him.

She was really, really glad he’d come, though. She needed a friend. Her brother had taken her to the hospital, and he was staying in town for a couple of weeks to help her with things, but. Still. It was nice to know she had a friend, that Wes had a friend, and their friend had come to see their baby in the hospital.

\---

“Hi, Ms. Castillo. This is Dr. Jakeem Hoyle from New York Pres. I’m returning your call from July 7th. I had a chance to look at those files that you mailed me. I’m sorry it took me a while. But I looked at the files, and I think that your boyfriend is a very good candidate for our study. Now there’s a protocol that we have to follow, but I will e-mail you with the details, and we’ll figure it out, and, ah, in the meantime, I look forward to working with you.”

\---

She had asked the woman who lived next door to her to babysit for the night, but she was beginning to regret it. If she had Chris with her, she would at least have something to occupy her hands. Instead, she was forced to wring her hands, and pace, to sit on the stiff-backed, ill-made plastic chairs, and _wait_.

She was sitting when Michaela got there with Connor, Oliver, and Bonnie.

Asher had a brief, whispered talk with Michaela at her arrival, but Laurel wasn’t interested in trying to listen in. She gave Oliver a small, close-lipped smile when he caught her gaze. Michaela passed Asher, and sat beside her.

“Hey,” Michaela said.

“Why are you here?” Laurel asked, staring at the tiles of the floor.

“Because,” Michaela said. She paused. “Because I’m bad at showing it, but my friends are—they’re my family.”

Laurel didn’t really have a response.

She was tired.

They sat in silence, and time was slower than it should be, passing slow, agonizing minute by slow, agonizing minute.

Eventually, Dr. Hoyle came down the hallway to them.

Laurel was on her feet immediately, searching his face for a clue, for the slightest telltale crease in his face, and proof that the surgery was successful. There was nothing. He reached her, and he smiled. She breathed in sharply. “Surgery was a success.” His face grew serious. “Now, though. There is a chance that it won’t be enough. The next twelve hours will tell us.” She nodded, and listened to him as best as she could, struggling to hear his explanation for what to expect over the sound of her own racing, bursting heart.

\---

She was in the middle of telling her neighbor that there was more pumped milk in the fridge when she glanced at Wes, and choked, because he was blinking at the ceiling.

“I have to go,” she gasped, and dropped the phone.

She bent over him, touching his face, and finding his gaze. His _gaze_. His eyes were blue and clear and _open_ , though they weren’t really focusing on anything. Dr. Hoyle had told her that if Wes woke, they couldn’t know the state he would be in.

She didn’t fucking care what state he was in.

“Hi,” she said, crying, and beaming. “Hey. I’m here.” She needed to call a nurse. “I’m here,” she promised. “You’re going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

The hours that followed were chaotic, and confusing, were stressful, and exhausting, and _wonderful_.

They didn’t know the state that he was in until that evening.

He was keeping his eyes open for longer, and seemed to focus on things. “If you can understand what I’m saying, I want you to squeeze my hand,” said Dr. Hoyle. “Wes, can you understand what I’m saying to you? If you can understand what I’m saying, I want you to squeeze my hand.” He paused.

Wes’s hand was limp in the doctor’s.

Sighing, Dr. Hoyle dropped his hand, and took a pen from his pocket, clicking it, and starting to write on the chart.

Laurel’s heart jumped. “My hand,” she breathed, and she pushed to her feet, glancing at Dr. Hoyle, and looking at Wes. He’d understood. “He squeezed my hand,” she said, breathless with excitement, and when she looked at him, he looked at her, and she knew. She was going to get her best friend back.

\---

 

_iv. “Because once you are real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”_

 

She was nine years old when she woke in the middle of the night to find her mother in her room, muttering to herself in Spanish, and pulling the clothes out of her dresser.

“Mama?” she asked, groggy.

“Pack your things, bebecita,” ordered her mother, breathless. “We are going on a trip. Quickly, come. You need to dress, and help me pack. We’re going on a trip.” She moved, and began to rustle quietly through Laurel’s closet, then turned, and yanked at the sheets of Laurel’s bed, and gestured her from the bed. “Quickly, Laurel.”

Laurel did what she was told, packing a bag, and leaving the house with her mother holding tightly to her hand.

They took a bus.

Her mother was sick in the heart, or that was what Laurel’s aunt had always said. It meant that Laurel had to look after her, and she did her best to. She never really questioned her mother, going along with her schemes, and knowing that it was her job to look after her, to love her.

She thought when they left that night it was one of her mother’s strange, sudden flights of fancy, and they would return from their trip soon enough.

It wasn’t.

They were living in a small, one-room apartment, and it had been weeks now, and her mother always smelled of the strawberries that she picked day in, day out.

“We aren’t going back, are we?” Laurel asked, understanding.

Honestly, she didn’t really mind that they had left.

She had always been afraid of the way that her parents fought, of how her father would scream, and the way he’d shake her mother. She’d always been afraid of the people who stopped by the house. She’d always been afraid of the police, that they’d return, and it would be like the time when they raided the house, and her father was dragged out while he shouted at them in Spanish. Her home had never really felt much like a home, and she was okay with leaving it.

She wondered if her papa cared that they’d left, that they were never, ever coming back. Sometimes, she missed him. But her mama was sick in the heart, and she needed her.

\---

She was anxious when her mother just didn’t come home from work in the evening, but she told herself that there was an explanation, and she shouldn’t be worried yet.

She went to sleep, and woke when it was still dark out, when it was time for her mother to be leaving for work. The house was dark, still, and quiet. Her mother wasn’t in the kitchen, wasn’t in her bed, wasn’t anywhere in the house. Laurel dressed, and made breakfast, and went to school. In the afternoon, she came home again, and her mother wasn’t there.

It was when the water got cut off that her fifth grade teacher pulled Laurel aside to ask about things at home.

Later, she’d understand that it was because she’d begun to smell.

“Did your mom lose her job?” asked the teacher.

“I think,” Laurel said.

“Have you had to move into a shelter?” asked the teacher, and her eyes were so soft, so kind. She wanted to help. “I know that must be hard,” she added.

“No,” Laurel said. “I’m living at home. My mother’s been trying to find a job, though, so she hasn’t been home in a while.”

“Your mom isn’t living with you?”

Laurel was quiet, sensing that she’d said something she shouldn’t have said.

“Who is living with you?”

“I live with my mother,” Laurel said, curling her hands into fists.

It was too late for that. “How long has it been since your mom’s been home, sweetheart?” asked the teacher. At the look on her face, a lump rose in Laurel’s throat.

Laurel was reported to the Department of Social Services.

It was under their care that she learned that her mother was deported. They questioned her about the rest of her family, about her father. She didn’t answer their questions. If they learned where her father was anyway, they didn’t tell her. She decided that he had probably been deported, too.

She was made to pack her things, and removed from the dirty, empty apartment.

Everything she owned fit into the bag that her mother had made her pack that night when they’d left her father, including the clothes from DDS.

She had to go to a brand new school for the rest of her fifth grade year.

The home they put her into was across the state. There were other kids there under the care of a racist old widow. None of them were her age, or had a thing in common with her. One of them constantly stole Laurel’s things. One peeded his pants a lot. One was always running away in the middle of the night, and being returned angry in the morning. But in the way that mattered the most, she was exactly like them: she was messed up, was unwanted, was a ward of the state.

\---

She learned that it was easiest to ignore the world. Nobody really _wanted_ to notice her, which meant it was easy to slip under the radar. She didn’t speak unless she was spoken to, and, in that case, she spoke in Spanish.

Eventually, people gave up on trying to talk to her.

She listened in school, and she learned, but she failed a lot of her classes for lack of attendance, participation, and competition of work.

“I know you’re smart, Laurel,” said one of her seventh grade teachers. “I know you understand what I’m saying, and I know that you do the reading. The thing I don’t know is why you pretend you don’t.”

“No entiendo.”

“I’m on your side,” he said, searching her face for something.

“Voy a llegar tarde a las matemáticas _,_ ” she said.

She took to measuring the people in her life based on how long they kept trying to talk to her, to get through to her. He lasted the longest. But once she was finished with his class, she wasn’t his problem any longer.

\---

“This is Wesley,” said Mrs. Carroway. “I’m going to Goodwill for him this weekend. He’ll sleep on the sofa until then. He’s in your grade, Juwaun. You keep him out of trouble, you hear? Wesley, this is Juwaun, and that’s Ben, and Latisha, and Max, Laurel, and Katie is upstairs.”

Wesley was skinny, black, and giving a small, quiet smile.

He was holding a big trash bag of stuff, which meant he wasn’t new to the system. If he knew how things worked, she didn’t know why he was smiling. He must not have realized that Mrs. Carroway was _the worst_.

\---

She stiffened when someone had the nerve to climb through the window to join her on the roof. She didn’t bother turning to look at the intruder. If she was lucky, it was Katie, and the idiot wouldn’t keep her balance on the slant of the roof, fall, break her leg, and leave Laurel alone for the rest of her life.

He sat beside her.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw his black, scabby knee, and realized it must be Wesley.

“¿Quieres uno?” he asked.

She was startled into looking at him. He had a cigarette in his lips, and was holding one out for her. She took it, and after he lit his own, he lit her cigarette.

It was quiet.

“No sabía que hablabas español,” she said, curious.

He nodded. “Um.” He held up a finger. “¿Dame un segundo?” He pulled a book from his pocket, starting to rifle through the thin, papery pages.

It was a pocket Spanish to English dictionary.

She snorted.

He glanced at her, and she liked the look in his gaze, the kindness, and the sincerity, and the bit of wary, knowing bitterness that was lurking in the edges, too.

“¿Qué deseas?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what you said just now, but I have a guess.” He inhaled, and exhaled, turning his whole thin, bony body toward her. “Look. I know you probably aren’t interested in friends. But could we maybe be allies? Because I could really use an ally.”

She considered him.

“I suck at sports. I love dogs. My mother killed herself when I was twelve. I was born in Haiti, but I’ve lived here since I was a baby. I’m allergic to peanuts. The couple I was with before this ended up getting a divorce, and I ended up back in the system. I like mint chocolate chip ice cream. Yeah. I think that pretty much sums up me. And it’s Wes. Nobody’s ever called me Wesley.”

She didn’t actually reply, but he didn’t really seem to care, and they sat in silence, smoking, and ignoring how cold it got when the sun went down.

\---

They weren’t technically allowed to have any razors in the house since Max had cut his wrists, but Wes had picked up a pack of cheap, plastic ones for Laurel at CVS. She’d have to toss them before Mrs. Carroway could snoop, find them, and punish Laurel with the worst house chores for a month. To keep anyone from barging in while Laurel shaved her legs, Wes sat on the ground with his legs splayed out, and his back to the door.

It figured that Mrs. Carroway was going to be the one to try to barge in.

She pounded on the door, and rattled the knob. “Who locked this?” she demanded. The whole door shook with her knocking.

“I’m—I’m kind of busy!” Wes said, making his voice high, strained, and squeaky.

There was a pause.

He grunted.

“Wesley!” Mrs. Carroway said, finding her voice at last. “You—you better not leave a mess in there, do you hear? You’re cleaning the bathrooms for the rest of the month!”

Laurel was close to crying from laughter, but it worked.

Mrs. Carroway stomped off angrily.

After she finished with her legs, she turned away from Wes, and took off her shirt, shaving her armpits.

\---

“You know you’re ridiculously smart, right?” Wes said. “You should try in school. You’d blow them all of the water. You could actually go to college if you want. Don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t want this to be your life. I’m going to college. I’m going to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or, you know, some other rich people thing.”

She laughed.

\---

She got the guts to kiss him for the very first time when they were at the movies. The darkness made her bolder. She wrapped her hand around his wrist, and he leaned in automatically to hear what she had to say. She leaned in, too, as though to whisper in his ear. But when she was close, she tilted her head, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lip. He turned quickly toward her in surprise, and bumped her cheek with his nose, and she kissed him on the mouth. She pulled back slightly, and waited.

He surged in, and kissed her.

She reached for his face, cupping his cheeks, and it was a messy, inexperienced kiss. There was teeth, and she didn’t know what to do with her tongue, and her chin grew slick with spit. She laughed, and drew back just to wipe at her face.

Through the dark, his eyes were bright.

She pressed a quick, happy kiss to his lips, and another, and another, and, quickly, they were making out again. His arm circled her waist, pulling her as close as he could with the stupid armrest between them. Under her shirt, his hand was warm on her back, and he pushed a hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head. She didn’t know how long they kissed. But when they left the theater, she saw in the light that his lips were swollen, and it made her chest expand with a warm, wonderful new kind of joy.

\---

They skived off classes on a rainy, warm afternoon, going to the house, and hurrying up to the attic where the boys all slept. Mrs. Carroway was watching her soaps with Mrs. O’Brien across the street. Still, Wes pushed his trunk of clothes in front of the door to make it certain that nobody was going to come in.

They’d thought this through, had bought a box of condoms, and everything.

They pulled off their clothes in a rush, exchanging a lot of kisses in between their eager, nervous laughter. It was the very first time that they’d seen each other naked, though they’d made out plenty, and snuck their hands under each other’s clothes more than a few times. She climbed on top of him in his little, messy bed, because she’d heard from girls at school that it would hurt less if she were on top.

In the end, it was like their first kiss: messy, and weird, and _perfect_ , and she curled up into his side after, happy.

\---

She was pulled out of class in the middle of algebra II by the eleventh grade counselor to go to the office. She had no idea why, but she was going to keep her mouth shut until she did. They had to go to her locker on the way the office, and the counselor told Laurel to clear it out.

Laurel was starting to panic, but she didn’t let it show on her face.

In the office, the principal was waiting for her. “Ms. Castillo, did you get everything out of your locker?” He was smiling.

“¿De qué se trata esto?” she asked.

“You’re coming home, sweetheart,” said a man, and she saw him rise to his feet from the corner of her eye. She turned, and his gaze was steady, calm. Familiar. She didn’t recognize him, but. She knew who he was. His face broke into a smile. “Don’t I get a hug?” he asked, opening his arms.

“I thought you were deported,” she said, staring.

“No.” He shook his head. “It was your mother who was deported.”

“Why don’t you both come into my office?” asked the principal. “I’ll give you some privacy. You can talk.”

“That would be great,” said her father.

Numb, she followed her father into the principal’s office. He reached out to touch her arm, to touch her _face_ , and she jerked away quickly, holding up her hands. His face was crestfallen, but she shook her head.

“Sweetheart,” he said.

“I haven’t seen you in six years,” she told him. “Mama was deported, and I was put in a home, and you—you show up _now_? Why?”

“Laurel, I’ve been looking for you since the moment I lost you.”

“You’ve been looking for _six years_?”

“You disappeared with your mother without a trace,” he said, frowning. “Sweetheart, I was devastated. And when I learned from family in Mexico that your mother been deported, I thought I finally had gotten a lead. I thought I’d finally be able to find _you_. But the state had you. They shipped you off to a home. I couldn’t get anyone to tell me anything. Laurel, you have to understand. I’ve been searching for you. And it took a lot of time, yes, and a lot of resources, but I’m here. I found you. And I’m going to take you home.”

“ _This_ is my home.”

“This?”

“Ohio.”

“You’re a ward of the state of Ohio,” he said. “That doesn’t make it your home. And—and just look at you, look at your _clothes_ ; you’re too thin, and you’re . . .”

“What?” she said, hardening.

“It’s time to bring you home to your _family_.”

“I have family here.”

He stared at Laurel for a moment. “Carroway?” he said. He was incredulous. “That woman does not care about you. I do. What about your brother? Don’t you want to see him? Your mother didn’t just take you; she left him.” He was imploring, was looking at her like he could not _believe_ her response.

“She was only his stepmother,” Laurel said.

He sighed.

She crossed her arms, and looked away from him. She couldn’t do this. She needed a moment to herself, a moment to think, a moment with Wes.

“You’re mad at me,” said her father. “I understand. I mad at me, too. I should have been able to find you a long, long time ago. But I can’t make it up to you if you don’t give me a chance. It’s time to go home, Laurel. And you might not like it now, but.” He shook his head. “You don’t have a choice. I’m your father. You belong with me, and the state now agrees.”

\---

They pulled Wes from class to come to the office. They were turning her whole fucking world upside down, but they were doing this for her at least. His face shown with confusion at first, then it turned to disbelief, and, slowly, resignation.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get to Florida,” she told him.

“Do you really think Mrs. Carroway is going to let me use her phone?”

“I’ll write,” she amended. “I’ll write, and you’ll write, and as soon as you get a cell, you’ll write me the number. We can do this, Wes.” She lowered her voice. “I’m sixteen. I’ll be eighteen in a couple of years, and my dad won’t get a say in my life. It’s only two years. We’ll write. You can e-mail me on the computers at school!”

He nodded.

“I thought he’d been deported,” she said. “Or . . . put in prison. Or that he just didn’t care enough to find me.”

“I’m glad you were wrong,” Wes said, mustering a smile.

“Really?”

“Your long ago, long lost family came to rescue you,” he said. “It’s the dream, isn’t it? I’m happy for you.”

“I don’t want my long ago, long lost family.”

He swallowed. “You know, um. I think this is the most you’ve ever spoken in a single conversation. In English.” He smiled.

She hugged him.

If she was hugging him, she could press her face into his neck, and try to stop herself from crying. “Have I told you I love you?” she whispered. “Because I do. Te amo. Eres mi familia. Te amo mucho.” He lowered his head to press his face to her shoulder, and she closed her eyes, clinging to him.

Her father had left the principal’s office to give them a moment, but he hadn’t even closed the door.

He cleared his throat.

Wes drew away from her, but she clutched his shoulders, and pushed up on her tiptoes, kissing him.

But when it was over, _it was over._

Her father led her out of the school with the contents of her locker in her cheap, Goodwill backpack, and she felt her resolve grow firmer. They’d keep in touch. They’d figure this out. They had _plans_. They were going to finish with school, and take a trip to Mexico to find her mother, and get an apartment, and a dog, and a bed that actually fit both of them, and this wasn’t going to change any of that.

\---

She wrote him a letter on the plane to Florida. He hadn’t written back before she wrote him another letter from her new, giant bedroom in her new, giant house. Three days later, she wrote him again. She wrote him again, and again, and again. He never wrote back.

She called the home, but Mrs. Carroway was annoyed with her, and wouldn’t let Laurel talk to Wes.

She took the bus, or tried to.

It ended in disaster.

She was _kidnapped_ by some asshole who wanted to make a point to her father.

Eventually, she gave up trying to get in touch with him. She told herself that she couldn’t really blame him for wanting to cut himself off from her. She’d _left_ him. She focused on school, avoided her stepmother, tried to make a couple of friends. After all, she knew better than anyone that life didn’t stop just because you lost someone you love.

At her big, ridiculous eighteenth birthday party, her father presented her with tickets for her to go to Mexico with her cousins to see her mother.

She spent the whole summer there.

In the fall, she started at Brown. She didn’t know if she got in because of her father, or because of her essay about her childhood, or because they actually meant it when they said they took into consideration a positive, marked improvement in your grades over time. It was probably her father.

\---

She had a photograph of them at least. In it, she had a tangle of hair that she hadn’t bothered brushing, and ripped, dirty black jeans, and Wes’s messy handwriting across her arms, because that was how they talked when she didn’t feel like talking. She was smiling. Wes was smiling, too, but he wasn’t actually looking at the camera. He was looking at her. She kept the photo in a frame, and kept the frame in her dresser. She refused to share him with the world.

\---

She was twenty when her stepmother got tipsy at Christmas, and slipped up, revealing that Wes never wrote her because she never actually wrote him. Her father had destroyed the letters. She was slow to anger, trying to comprehend the truth, and realizing it meant that Wes had waited for a letter that she’d promised him, and it hadn’t ever come.

She spent Christmas that year on a plane to Ohio.

It was useless.

Wes had left Mrs. Carroway’s as soon as he was eighteen, and she had no idea where he’d gone.

“He used to check the mail every day, you know,” said Mrs. Carroway.

“Did you ever even tell him that I called?”

“It was better that he didn’t know. You might be Mexican, but you’re white, too. And it isn’t a good idea to mix. It’s harder for everyone. You’re better off, Laurel, and he is, too.”

\---

Her very first class at Middleton was Criminal Law 100 with Professor Annalise Keating, and the older law students who’d been at the mixer last night had told Laurel that it was by far one of the toughest classes. “Keating is the _worst_. I mean, she’s amazing, and you are going to want to be her. But, man, is she a bitch.” They’d wished her luck with it, saying she was going to need a lot of luck.

She wasn’t really worried.

She was prepared.

Plus, she’d dealt with much worse than a bully for a teacher.

And, honestly, she was excited to be here. To _start_. She’d volunteered for a legal aid clinic in college, and she’d _loved_ it. She’d loved that they were actually helping people. It was what she wanted to do. Defend the innocent. Protect illegal immigrants who just wanted a better life. Help the people who needed it.

The professor was eager to begin, firing off questions without batting an eye.

“We've established the _actus reus_ ,” she said, “but what was the _mens rea_ . . .Wesley Gibbins?”

Laurel’s heart stopped.

 _It couldn’t be_.

But when he stood, she saw him, and. It _was_. He was taller, and his shoulders were broader, and he’d grown up, but Laurel would recognize him anywhere. He stuttered, and, at the professor’s cold, unimpressed glare, was forced to admit that he’d gotten off the waitlist. In the end, Laurel didn’t even think.

“To kill,” she said.

Her eyes went past the professor when she stood, when she turned, and she met Wes’s gaze, seeing the shock in them.

\---

 

_v. “Promise you won't forget me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred.”_

 

She couldn’t sleep. She was exhausted, and sore, and desperately in need of sleep, but she couldn’t. She lay in the dark. Meggy had turned the television off before she’d left, but the memory of his photograph on the screen was impossible to erase. Laurel couldn’t forget it.

Her mind went round in circles, tearful and confused and broken.

They were _fighting_. Did he hear that voicemail she left him? That couldn’t be the last thing he ever heard her say to him. She _loved_ him. Did he know that? _Had_ he _known_ that? It was the past tense. He was the past tense. He was _dead_. Tears rose in her throat, and he pressed her head back into the pillow, shaking with the effort to keep herself from sobbing. What was she supposed to do? This couldn’t be real. How was she supposed to _fix_ this?

She must have dozed off at some point, because she woke in the morning when a nurse came in to check on her.

The nurse was concerned that Laurel was dehydrated.

“I’m fine,” Laurel muttered.

“Did you manage to get any sleep last night?” asked the nurse, checking her vitals.

“Some.”

“The police want to talk to you. Do you think you’re up for it? I can have them come back later if you’d like. Our priority is getting you well again. I have no problem reminding them of that.”

“It’s fine,” Laurel said. Her voice was hoarse, and she got breathless if she tried to talk for too long. But. She’d have to deal with them eventually. “I can talk to them.”

The nurse helped her to sit up.

The police were two young, kind-looking officers who she’d never met before. She told them the truth. That she got a text from Annalise to come to the house, and she went. “Yes, that’s normal. I work for her. We work out of her house a lot.” That she was drunk, and that she texted Wes but didn’t hear back. That they were in a fight. That she saw a body, but didn’t see whose body it was before she was knocked out by the explosion.

“Can you tell us about your relationship with Annalise?”

“She’s my boss.”

“Did she ever have you lie for her?”

“If this is the conversation we’re going to have, I think I need a lawyer,” Laurel said.

“What about her relationship with Wes?” He said the name so calmly, so unaffected. “Were they close?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us the nature of their relationship?”

She wet her lips. “He—Wes . . . was _kind_. He cared about people. If he saw someone was hurting, he wanted to help. It’s why he wanted to be a lawyer.” She sniffed. “Annalise lost her husband, and she was in trouble with the school, and—and you know all of that. Wes was just her student, and he worked for her, and he . . . he worried about her.” She closed her eyes.

“I know this is hard.”

“Annalise didn’t kill Wes,” Laurel said, opening her eyes. “I’m not saying she’s a great person. But she isn’t a _murderer._ ”

“Okay.”

It was quiet.

She was glad when they finally left. The nurse came in again, and got Laurel to take ibuprofen with water, then told her to sleep, and she turned off the lights before she left, closing the door. The room was quiet, and Laurel curled up, sobbing.

\---

They moved her to recovery that afternoon, which Meggy said meant her friends could come to see her. She smiled when she said it, seeming to think that Laurel would be happy at the news. “No,” Laurel said, swallowing. The urge to cry had given way to a kind of cold, aching emptiness. “I don’t want to see them.” She was hollow. “Don’t let them in.”

“Laurel.”

“They aren’t my friends.”

\---

Meggy hesitated before she did it, before she told Laurel that she was pregnant. For a moment, Laurel didn’t believe her. She tried to argue with her.

“I’m not,” she said. “I just—I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t get together with Wes until _after_ you guys had broken up. That would mean I’d only be, what, three weeks pregnant at most? You can’t even tell if someone’s pregnant at three weeks. And I haven’t been with Frank in _months_. I think I’d know if I were six months pregnant now. I’ve only been with Wes for three weeks.”

She’d finally gotten to have him, and it had only lasted _three weeks_.

“There _is_ such a thing as a possible false negative at three weeks,” Meggy said. “But your blood tests are _positive_. You’re pregnant, Laurel.”

“I . . .”

“Your body’s been through a lot of stress, which means there’s a chance you’ll miscarry. Still. You have to try to relax, and not to push yourself too hard. I know that’ll be hard. But you’re pregnant. You have to think of the baby. And if you don’t want to have the baby, that is _fine_. But if there’s a chance you do, you need to be careful."

The words washed over Laurel.

She was pregnant.

“I do,” she said. She cleared her throat. “I do want it.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. It seemed so impossible, but. “If it’s Wes, I want it.”

\---

It was her brother who checked her out of the hospital, and took her home to her apartment. She told him that he didn’t need to stay the night, and convinced him. He promised he’d be by tomorrow with breakfast for her. Alone, she took a shower, then found one of Wes’s shirts, and put it on. It smelled like him. She breathed in deeply, tearing up. She thought for a moment that she shouldn’t have told her brother to leave.

Wes was everywhere in Laurel’s apartment.

His clothes were in her hamper, and tossed over the chair by her bed. The dishes that he’d washed after the last dinner that he’d spent here were sitting on the drying wrack. His textbooks were on the table in front of her television, and a highlighter was stuck in one, marking his spot.

She climbed into bed, and pulled the sheets up over her bed, and wept, cried, _sobbed_ , until her head was pounding and her lungs were burning and she was out of tears to cry.

In the morning, her phone was blowing up with calls, and texts.

She ignored them.

Her brother was back at 8 a.m. sharp, carrying two armfuls of groceries, and stocking her fridge.

They ate, and he had to leave to catch a flight. He had to work. He offered again to cancel, to stay if she wanted. “I’m fine,” she said. He was easy to convince, because this was a family that knew family was only just slightly more important than business.

She had calls from a couple of numbers she didn’t recognize, so she decided to check her voicemail.

The first message was from yesterday. Asher. She deleted it. Next was a message from Michaela, but she deleted it before Michaela could say a word. There was a message from Bonnie, a message from her stepmother, a message from _Simon_. There was another from Michaela, a message from Nate, another from Asher. There was a message from Meggy that Laurel actually listened to, but it was nothing that mattered. There was a message from Frank that she deleted without hearing a word.

The phone began telling her that was the end of unheard messages.

 _First skipped message_ , it said.

She frowned, and realized she must not have deleted some old, unimportant message after hearing it, and she choked a moment later at the sound of his voice.

“ _Laurel, it’s Wes_ ,” he said. She pressed a hand to her mouth, breathing in sharply. “ _I’m on my way. I’m picking up something to heat up. Do you like lasagna? To be clear, we’re talking about the frozen aisle lasagna. Call me back, or I’ll assume that you’re a fan. Okay. I’ll see you in—half an hour? 45 minutes? I’m getting ice cream, too. Shit, got to go. That lady’s going to mow me down if I don’t get out of her way._ ”

It finished, and she didn’t even think before pressing four on her phone, replaying the message.

\---

She listened to it again, and again, and _again,_ letting the sound of his voice wash over her until the words were meaningless. She’d never be able to forget them after this, though. They were a piece of him that she got to keep. This was what she was left with: this voicemail, and her memories. The lasagna he’d gotten that night had been truly gross, and they’d laughed about it, had ended up eating yogurt, popcorn, and these weird, energy oat bars that she was addicted to.

She had the baby, too. If she didn’t miscarry, she had the baby. She didn’t want a baby right now, like this.

But it was _his_ baby.

She lay on her pillow with the phone wedged under her cheek, listening to the voicemail on repeat, and slipped her hand under her shirt to press to her belly because it was as close as she could get to him.

\---

The funeral was short, and small, taking place under a bright, blinding sun while the wind whipped briskly at their faces. Annalise wasn’t there. Plenty of others were, though: people they’d gone to school with, a lot of their professors, a couple of clients who were kinder, better.

Connor was there, too.

The emptiness in Laurel was filled suddenly with a kind of dark, choking rage at the sight of him.

He came up to her with the rest of them after the casket was lowered into the ground, and the funeral was over. Asher was going to speak, but she cut him off before he could. “What are you doing here?” she asked, glaring at Connor. “Did you need to see that he was really dead, so you could celebrate how perfect your life is going to be now?” She was shaking with hate.

“Laurel,” Asher said, frowning.

Connor was silent.

“What’s the matter?” Laurel asked, wanting him to make his usual cruel, immature comment.

“The five of us might not have always gotten along, but we _were_ friends,” Michaela said.

Laurel scoffed. “No.” She shook her head. “No. You don’t get to rewrite history. You didn’t give a _shit_ about Wes. You treated him like he was—like he was something you’d stepped in, and he was the reason for all of your problems. You weren’t his friend. No. Bullshit.” She crossed her arms.

It was silent.

She wasn’t prepared for Asher to lung toward her suddenly, and grab her, pulling her into a hug.

She stiffened.

“We miss him, too,” Asher said.

“Asher.”

He wrapped his arms more fully around her, hugging her. She hated that it was affecting her. But it was. Her eyes were burning with tears. Slowly, she hugged him back. She turned her face to his chest, and raised her arms, curled her hands over the backs of his shoulders.

“He was my friend,” Asher said. “He was always cool to me. He was just a nice guy, you know?”

She shook with tears.

“You loved him, didn’t you?” he murmured.

She didn’t answer. She just pulled out of his grasp, wiping hastily at her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m fine.” She gave him a tight, closed-mouth smile, crossing her arms. She wasn’t. But as long as she was in front of people, she would force herself to pretend.

“You want to go get a drink, or something?” Asher asked.

“No,” she said. Her gaze found Connor again. “I want you to say it. Say you hated him. Admit it. He deserves that much.” His death had killed the kindness in her.

Connor’s jaw clenched.

“ _Say it_.”

“I hated him,” Connor said, and his voice was tight.

In the silence that followed, it was clear there was nothing more to say. She turned to leave, and Asher didn’t try to stop her this time. She passed Nate, and when he nodded at her, she nodded, too.

\---

Her professors were happy to work with her to get her through the semester, to offer her extensions, and exemptions. She told them all that she didn’t need any special care. She was fine. She had recovered, her throat had healed, and her voice was back to normal. She could do this, because she’d always done this.

She would do her work, and pass her classes, and she didn’t need pity to help her.

She went to Bonnie’s, too, because that was where Annalise was staying, and that was where everyone was working to find out what really happened that night.

“I’m glad you came,” Annalise said, soft.

“I’m here for Wes,” Laurel said, short, passing her without a glance, and taking a seat by Asher.

\---

She was about to leave for the doctor’s when someone knocked sharply on the door of her apartment, and she answered it to be met with Michaela’s set, determined face.

“Tell me you’re here because you found something out,” Laurel said.

“I’m here to go to your appointment with you.”

“What?”

Michaela was undeterred. “Meggy told me that you have your first ultrasound appointment today,” she said. “She wanted to go with you, but she can’t get off work. She asked if I could go with you, and I said I could. I don’t have class right now.” She shrugged.

“I can go to the doctor’s by myself,” Laurel said, annoyed.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Go away, Michaela,” she told her, and she tried to close the door on her.

Before she could, Michaela stuck her foot in the way, and when Laurel huffed in disbelief, Michaela only forced the door open again, and shoved her way into the apartment. “I’m coming,” she said. “You might not like me. But at this point, I’m done caring about that. You aren’t going to this appointment by yourself. If you don’t like it, too bad. I’m here, I’m coming, it’s done.” She pursed her lips.

“Fine.”

For a moment, Michaela seemed surprised at Laurel’s easy defeat. She gathered herself together, though, and nodded, opening the door again for them to leave. She drove to the office, putting on music to fill the tense, awkward silence.

On the walk into the office, Michaela asked. “Why didn’t you tell us you were pregnant?” She didn’t look at Laurel.

Laurel didn’t answer.

They had to wait for a while before the technician was actually able to see them. It was worth the wait. Laurel got to see her baby on the screen, got to hear her baby’s sure, steady heartbeat.

The room was filled with the sound, making _Laurel’s_ heard jump, and skip, and race.

And when she began to cry, Michaela squeezed her hand in reassurance, and she saw that Michaela’s eyes were wet, too.

On the curb outside Laurel’s building, Michaela put the car in park, and offered to stay to study for the wills and trust exam with her. “My outlines are in the back.” She nodded her head at the backseat.

“Seriously?” Laurel said, skeptical.

“What?” Michaela said.

“It’s just . . .” She shook her head, and looked at Michaela. “I didn’t know we were friends.

“That’s my fault.”

“There’s a part of me that hates you, you know. That’s always going to hate you. I look at you, and I think of the way you treated Wes, and I can’t forgive you."

“I understand.” She nodded. “I can live with that.”

“Really?”

“I don’t have a choice,” she replied. “Now.” She cleared her throat. “Do you want to study, or not? Because I _need_ to. My GPA isn’t mortifying this year, and I’d like to keep it that way.” She raised her eyebrows.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Sometimes,” Laurel said. “Sometimes, I feel like fighting. Sometimes, I feel like crying. And, sometimes, I feel like the world has gone on turning, and I . . .”

Michaela was quiet.

“Come on.” She opened the door of the car. “I want to see your outlines.”

They went up to the apartment, carrying the boxes with her outlines, and Michaela said they ought to order Chinese food for dinner.

\---

She took to talking to the baby. “What do you want for dinner?” she asked. Or she told him to stop kicking her. Or she asked him how he liked this name, that name. At night, she sang the old, simple Spanish lullabies that her mother had sang to her while she lay in bed. She told a lot of jokes, too. They were the bad, corny jokes that Wes had liked. “What’s the loneliest cheese?” she asked, sitting on the sofa with her knees drawn up to hug the baby.

On the television, Jennifer Aniston promoted some wrinkle-removing, age-defying cream.

“Provolone,” Laurel said.

She’d rolled her eyes at Wes when he’d told it to her the first time, when he’d murmured it at a law school mixer last year back when their life wasn’t that complicated. They’d been in front of a spread of chips, dips, crackers, and cheeses. He’d smiled, showing off his dimples, and popped a piece of provolone into his mouth.

“I miss him,” she whispered, and she wondered how she’d explain everything to the baby, when she’d have to.

\---

Asher thought it was Ms. Mahoney who’d done it. “Think about it.” It wasn’t like they didn’t know the lengths that her family was willing to go to protect their son. She had the money to get it done, too, to hire a professional to get it done. Was had actually been bludgeoned to death, but there wasn’t a murder weapon because it’d been destroyed in the fire.

“We need more than a motive,” Annalise said.

\---

It figured that eventually an opportunity was going to arise for Annalise to corner her, and make her talk. “You’re pregnant,” she said. They were in the kitchen of Bonnie’s house.

“I am,” Laurel said, continuing to make a sandwich for herself.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m not allowing it to affect my work in the clinic.” She’d known that this conversation was coming, had prepared for it. The baby was starting to show even when she wore looser, flowing shirts. The others had kept the secret from Annalise as long as they could, had simply not mentioned it without being asked not to, and she was grateful to them for that at least. “Therefore, I didn’t see how it could possibly concern you.”

“Laurel.”

She began to search for a plate.

“Is it healthy?”

She looked at Annalise. “Yes.” She didn’t blink, didn’t show any emotion.

“Do you know the gender?”

“Yes.”

Laurel’s blank stare seemed finally to get to Annalise. She sighed, and lowered her gaze for a moment. “Can you tell me at least if you plan to keep it?” She looked at Laurel again, and she looked _sad_ in that moment.

“Keep it?” Laurel said, incredulous.

“You’re young,” Annalise replied. “You’ve got your whole life in front of you. I wouldn’t blame you if you planned to give it up for adoption.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“No, I am not giving up my baby.” Her chest burned with anger. “I’m not giving up _Wes’s_ baby. I’m doing this. I don’t care if I’m _young_ , and I’ve _got my life in front of me_. I’m doing this. And, no, I don’t want your help. Do you want to know why? Because your help comes with a price, Annalise. Wes has already paid it. And I won’t let you hurt our son, too.”

Annalise was silent.

“Excuse me,” Laurel said. “I need to help Asher find a way to prove who murdered Wes. If you think you might actually be able to help with that, please. Join us. Otherwise, find somewhere else to drink.”

\---

There were nights when she lay in bed, thinking of what she would say if she got the chance to see him one last time. She’d tell him she loved him. Would he believe her? Could she convince him that she didn’t just want to fix him? What would she say to make him _know_? Sometimes, she thought she wouldn’t say anything. She’d just kiss him, hold him, bury her face in his neck, and she’d hope he knew what he meant, and he would, because he was Wes _._

\---

She was dozing on the sofa when there was a series of loud, insistent knocks on the door. She jerked up. She glanced at her phone, seeing that it was past ten at night. What the hell? Cautious, she went to the door, and looked in the peephole.

It was Nate.

She unlocked the door, and opened it. “Nate?” She didn’t immediately invite him in.

“Laurel,” he said, and his gaze fell to the curve of her belly.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Can I come in?” He sighed. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Sure.”

It was awkward for a moment when he came in, when he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. She offered him a drink, and he shook his head. In the end, they sat at the table in the kitchen.

“What’s this about?” she prompted.

“Wes.”

She stiffened.

“I went to Annalise’s that day,” he said, hesitant. “I found Wes. He was unconscious. It looked like he’d been knocked out. His head was bloody, but he was breathing. Faintly. But. He was alive.”

“You left him?” she said. He’d stolen the breath from her.

“No.”

“I don’t . . .”

“I was going to call an ambulance. But I realized that this was—this was a chance for Wes to escape. To start over again. The kid’s been through hell with Annalise, and I—I thought I could help him. I called a friend at the coroner’s. He owed me a couple of favors. I cashed in. He came to the house, and he was reluctant, but he gave Wes an injection that would slow his heart rate down drastically. He left, and I left, and I was going to make a call to the police, and . . .” He shook his head. “The house blew up right in front of me.”

“You’re saying you _could_ have gotten him out, but you didn’t because you were trying to _fake his death_?”

“I’m saying that Wes didn’t die in that fire,” he replied. “I got to the coroner’s office, and Wes was alive. He was hurt, but. My friend did what I asked, and reported him dead, reported his murder. And we took him out, put him in a hospital in New York City under an old, undercover pseudonym of mine.”

She gaped.

“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” he said. “I didn’t know Wes had people. Not really. I’m sorry. If I’d known, I . . .”

“He’s alive.” Her heart was banging on her ribs. “He’s _alive_?”

“He was injured, but he was alive when I dropped him off at the hospital.”

“What do you mean he _was_ alive?”

“It was a little while before I could check in on him again,” Nate explained. “There was a lot going on here with Annalise, and with the investigation, and—it was over a week before I was able to return to go to see him. I was stupid. I should have known that he’d freak when he woke up, but I couldn’t have known just how much he’d freak.”

“Tell me what happened,” she demanded.

“He wasn’t at the hospital when I got there. He’d checked himself out. The nurses at the hospital were able to tell me, though, that he woke up without any memory.”

“He—”

“I haven’t been able to find him,” he went on. “I’ve been searching for months. I looked into his past, figuring he might end up somewhere that was familiar.” He sighed. “But I haven’t been able to find a trace.”

She stood up from the table. “You’re saying that Wes is alive,” she said, pushing a hand through her hair. “You _faked his death_ , but you left him at a hospital, and he disappeared? Because he’d lost his memory? You have to know how absurd this sounds.” She stared. “You have to know that . . . that this is crazy, this is completely, _mind-blowingly_ crazy.”

“I know.”

She touched her belly.

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “I know,” she said. Her resolve was starting to form. There was a part of her that though this wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be. But if this was a dream that she was going to wake up from, then she’d wake up when she woke up. Until then, there was only one thing to do. “How are we going to find him?”

\---

 

 _vi._ “ _In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.”_

 

The marks started showing up when Laurel was only two. Her mother told the story with such sweetness, and such humor. Laurel had toddled out of her new, big girl bed, swaying on her feet, and started to say that her head was hurting, and her mother had been horrified, because her cheek was swelling with a bruise, and her hands were red, swollen, and torn up.

She’d rushed Laurel to the doctor, only to be told that the marks were superficial on Laurel.

“On her soulmate, they are very real,” he explained.

She had a _soulmate_.

In the years that followed, she became a canvas of split lips, swollen knuckles, and scratched up knees, elbows, and palms. She coughed up blood in the middle of her first grade play. She woke up on the day of her eighth birthday party, and two of her fingers were broken, her arm was fractured, and it hurt to move her shoulder.

“Looks like your soulmate is a fighter, sweetheart,” said her father.

At first, she’d been pleased at the idea.

She liked the pride in his voice at the idea of her soulmate, liked that she was special. Not everyone had a soulmate. She did, and she was happy to carry the cuts, bumps, and bruises that showed it. It made perfect sense that she had a soulmate, of course. Her father said that she was a princesa, and princesas got everything, which meant she got a person made perfectly for her.

Things changed when Laurel was nine, because that was when her father left her mother for his soulmate.

Her mother was _devastated_.

He hadn’t even known he’d had a soulmate, having never felt the pain of another person’s struggles. Then they’d met. Suddenly, it changed. This new, younger hire at his office tripped right in front of him, and his ankle was sprained, and his calf was scraped up, and his palms were cut from gravel because she’d caught her fall with her hands.

That was how it worked with soulmates. If you had a soulmate, you were connected. Connections were different from person to person, though.

Sometimes, you had to meet for the connection to spring to life.

Laurel, though. She was born with the noose of a soulmate already tightly tied around her neck.

It was impossible to hide, to ignore, to deny.

She was eleven, and her knuckles were swollen from a fight she hadn’t been in, and her lip was split, and there were the marks of rope around her neck from a stranger. “You better find him quick,” said her friends, giggling. “It looks like he needs you.” They smiled, and teased, and were happy for Laurel, and they refused to understand that she didn’t actually _want_ any of this.

She was fourteen, and her arm snapped in two in the middle of class.

She was sixteen, and her nose was broken, her eye was swollen shut, and her lip was puffy with a bruise that spanned her chin to her cheek. “I bet he’d be a little more careful if he knew that he was hurting the love of his life,” said her father. He had given her ice, ibuprofen, and a kiss on the top of her head.

“It could be a girl,” she said.

In reply, he sighed. He couldn’t deny that soulmate connections existed between women. He didn’t have to like it, though.

“If a girl took a beating as much as your soulmate, she’d be dead,” said her brother.

She glared.

 _She_ took the beating her soulmate got every day, thank you very much.

“You know it doesn’t matter,” said her stepmother, smiling, and reaching a hand out to cover Laurel’s hand on the table. “Girl, or boy. Your soulmate is your soulmate, and we’ll love whoever it is just as much as you do.”

Laurel pulled her hand away, and pushed her seat back from the table, ignoring the way her father growled at her that dinner wasn’t finished.

Lying in bed, she traced her tongue over the swell of her bruised, bloody lip.

 _I hate you_ , she thought.

She didn’t know when she’d meet her soulmate, or how. More, she didn’t know _what_ was going to happen. Everyone she knew seemed to think that she’d just fall madly in love, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it, too. She might be able to forgive her soulmate for the endless broken bones. But she didn’t think she’d ever be able to forgive the fact that she never, ever even got a _choice_ , that, to the world, the most interesting thing about her was a whole other person.

\---

Her soulmate faded slightly out of her life when she was at Brown. She didn’t know if it was because she had moved so far away from home, and, possibly, from her soulmate, and it had made the connection more tenuous. According to scientists, geography was a component in connections. Or the asshole might’ve just grown up, and stopped getting into constant fights. She didn’t really care either way, to be honest.

She was just glad to have the chance to live _her_ life.

She made new friends. She excelled in her classes. She got a boyfriend.

It figured that as soon as she was really, truly happy, her stomach was going to start to hurt in the middle of an exam. She recognized the feeling. She lifted her shirt up surreptitiously, and wanted to cry at the sight of growing, purple bruises spreading across her skin.

She tasted blood in her mouth, saw her knuckles begin to swell.

 _Bastard_ , she thought.

Her boyfriend broke up with her that night, saying that he hadn’t known she had a soulmate. Why hadn’t he told her? He wasn’t going to steal some other guy’s _soulmate_.

\---

The U.S. Supreme Court had ruled in the Commonwealth of Kentucky v. Sarah P. Whittaker that soulmates don’t actually have ownership over each other, and it wasn’t actually adultery for a person to have a relationship with someone who was recognizably not her soulmate, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t an assumption most people made. “I have a soulmate,” she said, standing in front of Annalise’s house with him. She thought it would make Frank back off, and she really, really needed him to back off, because she was starting to realize that she liked him, that she _wanted_ him.

“What’s your point?” Frank asked.

\---

It wasn’t like people didn’t know that soulmates weren’t actually a guarantee of happily ever after. There were plenty of scholarly, commercial, and fiction books that told otherwise, of liberal advocacy groups that fought for the rights of people with soulmates who were forced into marriages, who were shamed for loving another person, who were mistreated, neglected, or abused. Laurel had been a part of some of those groups at Brown.

Everyone still _wanted_ to believe in the perfect, romantic dream of happily ever after, though.

If ever there were proof that it was bullshit, this was it.

“Do you really think I’d murder my _soulmate_?” Annalise said, interrupting her, and the rage in her voice was so controlled it was terrifying. “Or had you forgotten what he is to me? What am I to him?” She glared at her sister-in-law. “No.” She straightened. “You haven’t. It’s why you hate me, isn’t it? I _took_ him from you. Go on. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Soulmates aren’t everything,” Hannah said, clutching the strap of her purse.

“You wouldn’t know, would you?”

For a moment, it seemed like Hannah was going to retort. But she pursed her lips, and turned on her heel, stalking out of the house, and slamming the door shut after herself. In the silence that followed, everyone avoided looking at Annalise.

“What?” she said. “Don’t you people have _jobs_ to do?” She raised her eyebrows.

There was a flurry of activity in response.

She left.

“We killed her _soulmate_ ,” Michaela said, dismayed.

“Shut _up_ ,” Connor said.

“Soulmates _aren’t_ everything,” Laurel said, and when she felt Michaela’s gaze on her, she ignored it, and continued to search through the file.

\---

She wanted to ask Annalise if she’d felt it when Sam had died. She had no idea what their connection was like. It could be that Sam only felt Annalise’s pain. It could be that they only felt the smaller bumps, and bruises. It could be the felt each other’s feelings more than the outright, physical stuff. Still. She’d heard that it was like a sudden, chilling emptiness stole through you, and any marks that you had faded away like they’d never been there to start.

Had it been like that for Annalise?

Sam had been hurt before they’d killed him. Had Annalise felt his pain, known he was in trouble, and, then, suddenly, known he was gone? Even if their connection was weak, she _must_ have known.

Had she tried to save him?

It was possible if the connection was enough; you could fight to keep your soulmate with you. It didn’t always work. In fact, it was usually the opposite.

People refused to let go, and died, too.

Did Annalise wish that she’d tried to fight it, and keep him? _Did_ she try to fight? Or when she felt the edge of coldness begin creeping up, did she simply let go, and wait for it to swallow her whole?

\---

She found him sitting on the stoop of the house. She sat behind him. She was glad when he didn’t tense, or turn away from her.                                    

“Is she your soulmate?” she asked.

It would make sense if Rebecca was actually his soulmate He’d trusted her so easily from the start, had wanted to help her, to defend her. Their story was the stuff of tear-jerking, heart-warming soulmate chick flicks. If she was his soulmate, that would explain everything. He’d done everything in his power to protect her, because she was a part of him.

Her heart broke just a little for him when he sighed, and rubbed his face.

“Rebecca?” he said.

She nodded.

“No.” He looked at her. “I just cared about her because I . . .” He shrugged. “Because I cared about her. Now I don’t know what to think. To do.”

“I have a soulmate,” she told him.

“Do you wish you didn’t?”

It wasn’t the response she was expecting. “Yes.” She looked away from him. “I don’t know who it is, though. Never met the person. But I’ve had somebody else’s bruises on me for as long as I can remember.” Her smile was humorless.

“Would it make a difference if she were my soulmate?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Could I trust her if she were? That’s the way it’s supposed to be, right? You never have to doubt your soulmate?”

“That’s bullshit is what that is,” she said.

He smiled.

It made her smile, too. She sighed. “We’ll figure it out,” she told him. They had to. They didn’t have a choice.

\---

Frank cut his finger on a knife when he was slicing a tomato, and swore. He glanced at her, and smiled at the look of shock on her face. “Relax,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s a freakin’ paper cut.” He didn’t understand why her breath had stopped, why her _heart_ had stopped. He turned on the faucet.

“I . . . I have to go,” she said, curling her hand into a fist, and grabbing her purse, making a beeline for the door.

“What?” He frowned. “Laurel.”

She made a beeline for the door, and fumbled to get her heels on.

“Laurel!”

“I forget that I have to—study,” she told him. “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He grabbed her arm.

She tried to jerk away from him, but all it did was bring her arm up from him to see, and she saw it the moment that he did, too. There was a trickle of blood running down her forearm from her first. She swallowed, and, slowly, she uncurled her fist, and he saw the cut along her finger that matched his.

He gaped.

“You got in fights a lot when you were a kid, didn’t you?” she asked, choking on the panic that had ballooned in her chest, that was pressing on her lungs, and clawing up her throat.

His gaze flew from the cut to her face.

Her stomach clenched tightly at the look that began slowly replacing the disbelief.

“Laurel.”

She shook her head.

He released her elbow to touch her cheek, to take her face in his hands.

“No,” she said, pulling from his grasp. “I can’t. I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“You’re my _soulmate_ ,” he said.

“I have to go.”

She ignored the hurt on his face, tearing open the door of his apartment, and leaving. She felt his gaze on her, but she didn’t turn around, and he didn’t try to follow her. She got to the stairs, and was gone.

\---

He cornered her at Annalise’s. “I don’t really want to talk right now.” This was not the place to have a conversation.

He ignored her.

He grabbed her arm, and made to drag her out of the room. Annalise started to talk, but he interrupted her without even batting an eye. “I’m happy to help you later, Annalise, but right now? I need to have a conversation with my soulmate. We’ll be back.” He led her out of the room.

She yanked her arm from his grasp as soon as they were in the hallway.

“Laurel.”

“What the hell?” she snapped.

“We need to talk.”

“You might need to talk, but I need to _process_. I’ve _hated_ my soulmate for years, Frank. You’ve had me covered in bruises for my entire _life_ , had a _claim_ on me that I didn’t ask for, and I’ve hated you for that.”

He was silent.

“I’ll talk when I’m ready to talk,” she said, and she returned to the others.

Nobody said anything about her sudden, way-too-soon reappearance, or about the way that she kept her back to Frank when he returned. Still, the air was polluted with their thoughts, and the awkwardness of everyone knowing something so personal, something she didn’t want them to know. It might have been cruel for her to walk out on him yesterday, but he was an asshole for doing this to her today.

She was glad for the distraction of her phone buzzing with a text.

It was from Wes.

_okay?_

She glanced up, and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was frowning at a file that he was flipping slowly through. She bit her lip. _tequila_? she replied. She needed a drink, or several.

 _Count me in_ , he wrote.

She smiled despite herself. But when she turned, it was to find that Frank was looking at her. Her smile fell quickly off.

\---

There was part of her that wished she could take it back, that she could stop herself from pushing for Frank to tell her the truth. What did it mean that her soulmate was a murderer? That he strangled a _pregnant college student_? What does it mean that her soulmate was a mirror of her _father_? It was everything she’d feared when she was a teenager with split lips, swollen eyes, and bloody knuckles.

She understood now why everyone told her she was going to fall for her soulmate as soon as she saw him.

There was a _pull_ to Frank.

She craved him, was at peace in a strange, contented way when she was with him.

Did this mean her love for him was feeling she couldn’t actually control? She _was_ falling for him. Was it real? Should she fight it? Did it make her a truly despicable kind of cruel that she wished her soulmate wasn’t her soulmate, and _hoped_ her love for him was simply the result of some magical, chemical soulmate connection?

She kissed Wes.

 _I wish it were you_ , she thought.

It turned out that princesses don’t actually get everything they want.

At Annalise’s, Frank said it like it was supposed to fix everything. “I’m your _soulmate,_ ” he said, standing in the dark of the basement with her, and looking at her like she _had_ to understand. It made it easier.

“Annalise had a soulmate, too,” she replied.

In the end, it turned out that geography wasn’t enough to loosen a connection.

He disappeared.

He shot Wes’s father in front of him, and disappeared.

She went to Mexico.

Still, she felt every cut, every bruise, knew when he’d been in a fight, and taken a beaten, because her face swelled with the marks.

\---

He refused to listen, to understand. “I’m just saying I get it,” Wes said, and it was like he was exasperated with _her_ , like she was the one who refused to understand. “If you still worry about him, that’s fine.” He was so certain, so _blind_. In that moment, she knew for certain.

“Look at me,” she said. “I am not in love with Frank.” She held his gaze.

“He’s your soulmate,” he whispered.

“He isn’t my _choice_.”

His gaze fell from her eyes to her lips, and it was the push she needed to rise up, to take his face in her hands, and kiss him.

\---

She’d look back much later, and try to decide when exactly was the moment it happened. She’d wonder if it had been one moment, or it had been a slow, building thing. Part of her thought it might have been the fight, because she’d been so angry with him, so _frustrated_. But she’d known that it was temporary, that they’d work through it. They’d been in a fight, and, still, she’d loved him with more confidence than she’d ever loved anyone.

 _Yes_ , she’d decide. _That was when it happened._

\---

She wasn’t in the mood for partying, but she didn’t have anything better to distract her than to drink with a bunch of people she didn’t really know. She _wanted_ to fight with Wes, but, apparently, he’d left. It made her furious. They were in the middle of a _fight_. He wasn’t allowed just to run away, and leave her to fester in anger, replaying their conversation on a reel in her head.

“What’s the matter?” Simon asked, noticing.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Really?” He gave her a look of skepticism that made a drunk, irrational part of her annoyed. “‘Cause it kind of looks like you—”

She slapped her hand on the desk in front of her, feeling a knife of pain in her stomach.

“What?”

She winced.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and this time his voice was alarmed.

“I—” She knew that this must be Frank, that something must’ve happened to him, and she was feeling it, but she’d never felt the pain so sharply. She clutched her stomach, breathing in through the pain. The marks he gave her always hurt, but they hurt in a softer, blunted way after the fact. This was something else entirely. “I think—”

“You’re bleeding,” Simon said, aghast. “ _Shit_. I need some help over here!”

She pulled her hand from her stomach to see that her fingers were bright with the blood that stained her shirt.

“Laurel?” Asher said.

“What’s going on?” Michaela asked.

She _knew_.

“Is it Frank?” Connor said.

“It’s Wes.” She choked. “Wes is hurt. He’s _hurt._ We have to find him!”

“ _Wes?_ ” Michaela said, incredulous.

“Does anywhere know where he is?” Asher asked.

“He left,” Connor said.

“I can track his phone,” Oliver said, breathless. “I’ll—I’ll track his phone.” He began typing away furiously on his laptop.

It hurt just to _breathe_. If it was like this for her, how much worse was it for him? People were hovering around Laurel, but it didn’t stop her from leaning back in her chair, and pulling up her shirt to see her stomach. Blood was smeared across her stomach from her shirt, but it couldn’t easily disguise the puckered, gaping hole. He was _shot._ Laurel nearly toppled into Michaela’s arms, sobbing.

“Got it!” Oliver yelled.

“I’ve got 911 on the phone,” Asher said.

“He’s at Annalise’s!"

Asher began telling the operator Annalise’s address.

Michaela hugged Laurel. “Breathe,” she instructed. “Even if it feels like it, this can’t actually kill you, and 911 is on the way to Wes.”

She tried to jerk away from Michaela.

“Laurel.”

“I have to—”

“You can’t get to him faster than an ambulance,” Michaela said.

“She’s in trouble, too,” said a girl.

“Who are you?” Connor asked, glaring at the mousy-faced, brown-haired student.

She ignored him. “There are cases of soulmate bonds being strong enough for a sudden, violent death of a person to kill his soulmate, too.” For a moment, she held Laurel’s gaze, and the pity in her eyes was overwhelming.

“There’s nothing that we can do for her,” Simon said. “This isn’t her wound. It’s an echo.”

“She needs to stop holding onto him so tightly. It might help keep him alive for longer. Not for very long, though. If he was really shot, she can’t stop him from . . . If she doesn’t let go, that just means that she dies with him.”

“I am _not_ letting go,” Laurel said.

“ _Seriously_ ,” Michaela said. “Who the _fuck_ are you?”

It was silent.

“I still don’t understand how she . . .” Asher didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to.

“It happens,” Oliver said.

Laurel couldn’t listen to them, screwing her eyes shut with the effort to breathe in, and breathe out.

“It’s going to be okay,” Michaela said. She turned her face until her nose grazed Laurel’s cheek. “You hold onto him,” she whispered. “Do you hear me? You hold onto your soulmate, understand? You aren’t going to lose him. _We_ aren’t. It’s the Keating Five. Not four. _Five._ You hold on, and you don’t let go.”

\---

She didn’t fight them when they decided to go to the hospital, when they urged her to her feet. He was going to the hospital, too. The ambulance was going to get to him, and the paramedics were going to save him, and she was going to see him at the hospital.

She sat in the back of Asher’s car, leaning into Michaela’s side.

At the hospital, they were swarmed by people. “It’s her soulmate,” Michaela said. They were ushered to sit.

“She’s fading,” said a nurse.

“Is he here?” Laurel asked, blinking. Her eyes were heavy. “Is he . . .?” She searched for Michaela’s hand, and found it, squeezing. “I haven’t felt it yet,” she mumbled. She blinked. “I’ve still got him.”

“Here.”

She frowned.

“Open your mouth.” There were fingers on her lips. “Sweetheart, I need you to open your mouth.”

\---

She didn’t know where she was when she woke. She blinked. Her mouth was sour with sleep. She rubbed her eyes, frowning at her grogginess, and the heavy, achy feeling of sleeping for a little too long. Someone was stroking her hair.

She was in a hospital.

She tilted her head, and saw she was lying with her head in Annalise’s lap.

“Morning,” Annalise said, smiling.

She sat up. “I . . .” She was flooded with the memory of everything, and she scrambled to tug up her shirt, to see a mark that meant Wes hadn’t died.

“He’s fine.”

There was a pink, stitched up gash on Laurel’s stomach. It was strange. She could see the lines that meant it was stitched, but there wasn’t actually any stitching in her skin. She covered the mark with her hand, and closed her eyes for a moment, allowing to relief to sink in. She didn’t know what had happened, but he was alive, and that was enough.

“You passed out,” Annalise said.

She opened her eyes.

“I guess the toll of everything got to you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I remember. They were trying to give me a sedative. They were trying to make me sleep, to break the connection with Wes. I . . .” She frowned.

“You passed out."

“How long was I out for?”

“It’s been a while,” Annalise said. “You were already out when I got here. The doctors said you were suffering from exhaustion, but it wasn’t something they could treat.” Her smile was the softest that Laurel had ever seen it. “It took a lot out of you to keep Wes alive,” she said. “He would have died without you, you know. He would’ve lost too much blood. You kept him alive until the paramedics were able to get to him.”

“Can I see him?”

“He was moved to recovery a couple of hours ago,” Annalise said. “The others went home to sleep as soon as they knew, but I didn’t want to wake you. If you’re up for it, we can go see him right now.”

“I am.”

At the sight of him, she teared up.

“He was lucky,” Annalise said. “The bullet missed hitting anything major. He’s going to be fine.”

Laurel sat beside him, and reached for his hand. She was filled with such a warm, certain joy in that moment that she knew. He was her soulmate. She laughed at herself at the thought. She knew already that he was her soulmate. She couldn’t ever doubt it after what they’d just been through.

“Did you know?”

“What?”

“That you’d made him your soulmate?”

She glanced at Annalise in surprise. “No. Not until he was shot, and I just . . . _knew_. I don’t know how it happened. Or when.”

“You might never know. It’s one of the mysteries of soulmates that scientists have never really been able to explain. There was a poem that Eve used to quote. _The universe doesn’t know me like I do._ ” She smiled. “It takes a special kind of person to disagree with the universe, Ms. Castillo.”

“Well, I’ve always been good at disagreeing with people,” Laurel said.

In the back of her head, she knew the worst was yet to come. He was _shot_. He was going to recover, but that wouldn’t undo the fact that someone had shot him. Someone had wanted to kill him. Since the moment they’d killed Sam, they’d been gambling with their lives, and they weren’t done yet.

Somehow, she found in that moment that she couldn’t have cared less.

They’d figured it out.

She reached out, and touched a hand to his chest, felt the soft, steady strum of his heartbeat under her palm.

\---

 

_vii. “I don't know who it is," she said; "but somebody cares for me a little. I have a friend.”_

 

The house was empty. She went to the back of the house, and even half way up the stairs, calling for Annalise. Nobody was there.

“ _Seriously_?” she said, and her voice seemed louder in the dark.

She checked her phone again, seeing that she didn’t have any missed calls, or missed text messages. She pulled up her texts with Wes to glare at his lack of response for a minute, then called out to nobody that she was leaving, and stomped to the door. There was a part of her that wanted to go to Wes’s apartment to confront him, but she knew she shouldn’t.

If he was going to refuse to have it out with her, fine.

She went to her apartment, found a bottle of tequila that needed to be finished off, and put TLC on the television.

Once the bottle was finished, she couldn’t stand sitting there.

She had always needed space from people when she was upset, but, well, it looked like Wes was once again the exception to the rule. And if he wanted some space, he was going to have to _say it._ To her face. Because she was drunk, and she was going to his apartment.

She didn’t stop knocking until he opened the door.

“Finally,” she said.

He was silent, and his face was tight with everything he wasn’t saying.

She sighed, and pushed her way past him, and into the apartment, peeling off her heels while she went, and dropping onto the sofa. He had ESPN on. He followed, and sat beside her, wordless.

They watched the game for a while.

“What did Annalise want?” he asked at last, breaking the silence in the middle of an unending, artsy Coke commercial.

“She wasn’t actually there.”

He frowned.

“I don’t know what she wanted, but it couldn’t have been too important.”

“The police found Rebecca’s body in the woods,” he said.

It punched the breath from her lungs.

“That’s where I was,” he went on. “My lawyer told me the police wanted to talk to me about Mahoney, but they didn’t. They wanted me to give up Annalise in exchange for immunity.”

“Did you?” she asked.

“I was going to, but . . .” He sighed. “I realized that I couldn’t because the deal was immunity for _me._ It left you at risk, and—Connor, and Michaela, and Asher.” He clenched his jaw, and unclenched it. “I had them type it up, and edit it, and—and didn’t sign it, because I couldn’t. They were pretty pissed about it.”

“Do you think they’ll go after you for Rebecca’s murder?”

“They made it seem like they would,” he said. “But they don’t think it was me. They think it was Annalise.”

It was quiet.

There was a part of her that still didn’t want to tell him, but she _had_ to.

“It was Bonnie.”

“What?”

“Bonnie killed Rebecca,” she said.

He stared.

“She was trying to protect us, or something. I don’t know. Annalise covered it up before she even knew who she was covering it up for.”

He was incredulous.

“Wes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I . . .” She sighed, and said it. “Because I was trying to protect you.”

He shook his head. “Stop.” His voice was edged with anger.

“No.”

“What?”

She sat up slightly. “ _No._ I’m not going to stop. I care about you, and I want to protect you, and if you don’t like that, that’s too bad. I’m not going to stop.” She held his gaze, unflinching.

He got up, and walked away from the sofa, turned, and stopped, scrubbing a hand over his face.

She waited.

“Why?” he said. He took a step back towards her. “Why do you care?”

“What?”

“Why do you care about me?”

She stared at him for a moment, realizing he was serious. He wanted a _reason_. “Because even when everything is going wrong, I’m— _okay_ when you’re there. That might not sound like anything, but it’s—” She shook her head, and found herself standing, too. “It’s _everything_ to me. I don’t want to say I’m happy every time I’m with you, because, honestly, our lives are way too complicated for me to be happy very much. But when everything is going wrong, you make it better. For _me_. You make it okay. Your jokes, and your trust, and . . . just— _you_.” She didn’t know if any of that made sense to him, but she hoped it did. She hoped he understood.

“I love you, too,” he said.

“What?”

“You told me on the other night that you loved me.” He gave a soft, slight smile. “I love you, too.”

“Yeah?” she said, feeling a swell of emotions.

He closed the distance between them, and when she turned her face up towards him, he touched her cheek, and combed her hair back from her face. “Yeah.” He bent his head, and kissed her.

\---

They were called to Annalise’s again in the morning, and this time when Laurel showed up, everyone else showed up, too.

Annalise was the last to stalk in, dropping a bomb as soon as she saw them.

Everything was a mess again. The police had Rebecca’s body, and they were determined to pin her murder on Annalise. It turned out that Charles Mahoney’s alibi was airtight. And, to top it all off, Renee Atwood was murdered. She was shot in the chest three times. Annalise was a suspect for that, too. The police were crawling over every inch of her life in search of evidence.

“Is there a point when we give up?” Connor asked. “Just—give up, and admit maybe we _belong_ in prison?”

“Renee is dead,” Annalise said.

“Yeah, we know,” he said. “Don’t you watch the news? You’re the killer.”

“Shut up.”

He was silent.

“Renee is dead,” she repeated. “That’s why we’re going to pin everything on her. Everything. She killed Wallace Mahoney. She framed Wes. She wanted a way to control him, to _blackmail_ him. She told Wes that Wallace was his father, and killed him right in front of Wes. He’ll get immunity for lying to the police in exchange for his testimony about Renee. He’ll tell them that she wanted to lie, and say I’d killed Rebecca. In truth, she killed Rebecca to frame _me_. She had wanted me to go down for Sam’s murder, and when she couldn’t get Rebecca to say I’d done it, she killed her, and decided to frame me for it.”

“Whoa,” Asher said.

“That doesn’t explain who killed Renee,” Wes said.

“No,” Annalise said. “It doesn’t.” She tilted her head. “Tell me. How would you convince a jury that Mrs. Mahoney is a murderer?”

\---

She assumed she had a cold. After all, she’d been exhausted for weeks. She had nodded off at Annalise’s on Tuesday, had been in the middle of helping with the case, blinked, and woken to learn that she’d been sleeping with her head on Wes’s shoulder for an hour. It wasn’t that her back hurt, or that she was congested. She was just so _tired._ She drank a lot of orange juice, hoping to kick her useless immune system into gear. It didn’t help much.

It wasn’t until the third awful night in row of waking up nauseated at two a.m. that it occurred to her.

Her period usually came at the end of the month.

It was the start of December, and it hadn’t come last week. Come to think of it, it hadn’t come at the end of October. The panic built slowly in her chest while she lay in the dark beside Wes.

She didn’t wake him, though.

She didn’t tell him.

She went to CVS in the morning, and bought a test, taking it in a rush before she had to go to her business law class.

It was a waste of her time to go to business law. She spent the whole class reeling over the fact that she was _pregnant_. If there was anything she didn’t need to add to the unpredictable, terrifying tumult that her life had become, it was a _baby_.

She caught Wes getting off his bike. He had environmental law in ten minutes. There was a part of her that thought she should keep it to herself, and use the time to process. But when he saw her, he smiled, and she _had_ to tell him. “I’m pregnant,” she said, and she watched the play of emotions on his face, watched his smile slip off, and confusion pull at his brow, watched him swallow.

“You want to go back to your place?” he asked.

She nodded.

They didn’t actually talk until they were in her apartment.

“I shouldn’t have it, right?”

He sighed. “I mean, I . . .” He shook his head.

“I wouldn’t be able to have it, then give it up for adoption. I know that. Once the baby was in my arms, I wouldn’t be able to give it away.”

“Me, neither,” he admitted.

There was a pause, because it sounded so _real_ when she called it a baby. It was. She was pregnant _with a baby_. She closed her eyes for a moment, squeezing the bridge of her nose. They’d figure this out. She’d certainly dealt with harder things. This was nothing in comparison.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes.

He touched her arm, and she stepped into him easily, hugging him, and pressing her cheek to his chest. “I’m with you,” he murmured. He kissed the top of her head. “You know that, right? I’m with you no matter what.”

“I know,” she said, pulling away slightly to look at him.

He tucked her hair behind her ear. “If you don’t want to have it, we won’t. I’ll go with you to the doctor’s. But if you do want to have, okay. I’m in. I don’t know anything about babies, but. There are books, right?” He crinkled his brow, and gave her half a smile.

She couldn’t help smiling.

She hugged him again, and when his phone went off, she didn’t pull away. She didn’t have to. He kept an arm around her shoulders while he answered it.

\---

“You’re seriously going to have it?” Connor said, cutting off Asher in the middle of congratulating her at the news. “You’re, what? Twenty-four? You’re in school, and did you miss the part where we’re in a secret murder gang?” He looked at her in disbelief.

“Did you miss the part where nobody cares what you think?” Wes said.

\---

He went to talk to the police at two in the afternoon, and, three hours later, Laurel was pacing her apartment, checking her phone, and losing her mind. Eve had gone with him, and Wes was smart, and there really wasn’t a reason for Laurel to worry. Regardless, she was, and she paced, and checked her phone, and muttered under her breath whenever she got another text message from Asher, Michaela, or Connor in search of an update.

Her phone hadn’t even started actually buzzing when she saw Wes’s name on the screen, and answered it.

“Wes?”

“ _I’m fine_ ,” he said. “ _Seriously. You can stop freaking out now._ ”

“Did they make the deal?”

“ _Yes._ ”

She tipped her head back slightly, closing her eyes, and releasing a breath in relief.

“ _I’m going to Annalise’s_ ,” he said.

“I’m on my way,” she told him. “I’ll text everybody else. I love you.”

“ _I love you, too._ ”

She couldn’t fully relax until everything was actually over, and put to rest, and nobody had reason to suspect that Wes was lying about Renee. But. This was a win, and she was going to take it.

\---

Even after everything they’d been through, Laurel was still in awe of Annalise in a courtroom.

She choked on her breath when it worked, when Mrs. Mahoney lost her temper, and _confessed_. To a courtroom of people, she admitted that she had murdered Renee Atwood in an effort to hide the existence of her husband’s illegitimate lovechild. Immediately, the court was in an uproar, and Mrs. Mahoney began trying to take it back, stuttering, and turning to the judge in protest, and Annalise’s face shone with triumph when she said that she had no further questions.

“I can’t believe Annalise actually got her to confess,” Laurel said.

“I can’t believe Mrs. Mahoney actually _did_ murder Renee,” Asher said, shaking his head.

\---

It was Michaela who said it. “What happens now?” she asked. They were gathered at Annalise’s, half-watching the news on the TV, and half-sitting in shock, trying to wrap their heads around the fact that it had _worked_.

“Now,” Annalise said, smiling, “you go back to being normal, high-achieving law students, and _enjoy it_.”

\---

They had no idea how to do that, but they could always try until the next murder, the next misunderstanding, the next mess.

\---

She wasn’t really certain how exactly it started, but they began to put on Univision in the evenings when they needed a break from studying. It was what she usually had on when she was alone, and Wes was trying to learn Spanish now, and claimed he wanted to watch it, too. Laurel was amused at his earnestness, and happy to indulge him.

It surprised her more when Michaela brought Asher over to study, and they ended up staying at her apartment even after they called it quits to watch a telenovela.

Asher got really into it despite the fact that he had absolutely no idea what was happening.

Three weeks later, she realized it was a _thing_.

Suddenly, they had a weekly TV night in which they studied for a couple of hours, gave up when they were, and watched a telenovela while they ate takeout, or delivery, or something that Asher only burned a little on the stove, because he was superb at burning absolutely everything.

They were _friends_.

Eventually, Connor started coming, too, at Michaela’s invitation. For a while, he stayed to study, and left. There was always beer in the fridge, though, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do, or that was what he said.

“I have a present for Baby,” Michaela said, kicking off her heels when she arrived with Asher.

“You chipped in for the pack ‘n’ play at the shower,” Laurel said.

“This is different,” Michaela said, and, to make it clear, she waved a hand in dismissal, and took the toy from her purse, tossing it into Laurel’s lap. “This is Sophie the giraffe. She’s a _thing_. I heard about it from Carol in wills and trust. She says babies fall madly in love with Sophie.”

“Thanks,” Laurel said, puzzled, and a little bit touched, too. She showed it to Wes. He was sitting on the floor in front of her, painting her toenails.

“We aren’t actually studying tonight, right?” Asher said, rummaging in the fridge.

“We should,” Michaela said.

“We took an exam this morning!” he replied.

“We have another on Friday,” she said, unimpressed, and she sat on the sofa.

There were a few short, sharp knocks on the door, and Connor let himself in. He brought with him a large brown paper bag, and the smell of food. “Indian?” Laurel said, hopeful, and made grabby hand motions at him before he could even answer, because she knew she was right.

\---

She knew that Wes had nightmares. She woke to find his body was locked with tension, or woke to the change in his breathing when it grew labored. She’d wake him as gently as she could, and he’d brush it off, tell her that he was fine, and to go to sleep. She let him.

His nightmares were his, and she wouldn’t force him to share them before he was ready to.

Once, she woke to find that he was awake, too, staring at the ceiling with a tense, faraway look that made her so sad, that made her so desperate to _help_.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Can’t sleep?” She touched his chest.

“Just had a bad dream,” he said, and he turned, curing around her, and pulling her into his chest, sighing.

\---

Christopher Castillo Gibbins was born at the start of summer. She went into labor in the evening, and it lasted through the night, ending at 7:42 a.m. He had a layer of dark black hair on his hair, soft brown skin, and a sweet, scrunched up face that made her smile, that made her call him her little old man.

He was perfect.

She thought that Wes was going to have a nurse take him to the nursery to give them both a chance to rest, but he didn’t.

She napped, and when she woke, Wes was murmuring to Chris.

“. . . hot dogs, or—I guess peanuts are the baseball game food, right? Like I said, I never actually went to one. You’re kind of getting a work-in-progress with me. I don’t really know what I’m doing. But we’ll figure it out. And we can let your mom tag along to the game, and she can take a picture of us, and you can show it off at school for show-and-tell. I always wanted to do that when I was kid. To get to show off my dad, you know? If you don’t like baseball, we can do something else. Yeah. You can pick. How’s that sound?”

“He’s going to love you so much,” Laurel said, soft.

He turned his head to her in surprise.

She smiled.

He stood, and brought the baby to her, and she took him eagerly. She hadn’t seen him in the whole two hours she’d been asleep. “Hi, bebecito,” she whispered. “Hi. How’s my little old man, huh?” She stroked her fingers over his impossibly thin, impossibly soft hair.

“Do you need anything?” Wes asked. “More water? Something to eat?”

“No.” She drew her gaze up from Chris to look at Wes, and smiled. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

\---

Her father’s whole family came to the graduation. Chris sat in the crowd with when she crossed the stage to receive her diploma. Afterward, her father was eager to treat her, Wes, and the rest of the family to a lavish, expensive dinner. She let him, because she was happy, and proud of herself, and proud of Wes, too. Her father had approved of Wes as soon as he’d met him, had liked that he was in immigrant who worked his way up, who’d gotten into law school, and was making a good life for himself. She didn’t need her father to approve of her boyfriend, but it certainly made everything a hell of a lot easier.

\---

After they spent a long, miserable summer studying for the bar, they decided to have a day of fun to celebrate that it was _done_.

It started with a feast for breakfast that Wes had cooked up. They went to the library for storytime, played with puppies at the pound, and took a walk on Fifth, because there was a lot of construction on Fifth, and Chris had recently become entranced by trucks. They got lunch at a burrito food truck, and had a picnic in the park.

It was nice, lying in the sun, and seeing how easily Chris was entertained.

He squatted by a flower, poked at it, and, after a long, thoughtful pause, plucked it.

“Give it to Mama,” Wes said, and Chris glanced at him, then at Laurel. “Give it to your mama,” Wes encouraged, and he pointed at the flower. Chris toddled over to Laurel, and thrust the flower at her.

“Thank you!” Laurel gushed, taking the slightly crushed dandelion.

Pleased, Chris decided to uproot every flower in sight to give to his mother before he saw a bug, and was distracted.

She lay on her back, closing her eyes to the glare of the sun.

“Give it to Mama,” Wes said.

“I’m surprised there are still any flowers left,” Laurel said, amused.

“Mama,” Chris said.

She sat up on her elbows, and opened her eyes, smiling. “Hi, buddy,” she said. He held out his hand to her, and she froze.

He wasn’t holding a flower.

She gaped.

Impatient, Chris half-climbed onto her lap, and pushed the ring into her face. She laughed a little, breathless, and sat up properly, taking the ring from him. It was pretty, was a yellow gold band, and a simple, solitary diamond.

She looked at Wes.

“It’s always been a some day thing,” he said. “Now we’ve graduated, and you’re going to work for Annalise, and I’ve got that clerkship, and . . .” He shrugged. “I want some day to be some day soon. Will you marry me?”

She nodded.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she said, laughing at the tears in her eyes.

He grinned, and reached for hands, for the ring. He slid the ring on her finger, and reached up, cupping her face, and brushing her tears away with his thumbs. She smiled. He kissed her. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

“Should we worried that our son is trying to eat a flower?” he murmured.

She leaned her forehead on his, and glanced at where Chris was squatting with another flower clutched in his fist. “I think he’s just licking it,” she said. Wes laughed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing and kissing him.

**Fin.**


End file.
